


The Stories We Haven't Heard

by ChocolatteKitty_Kat



Series: Knights of the Round Table [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatteKitty_Kat/pseuds/ChocolatteKitty_Kat
Summary: Stories set from the time of the knights' conscription in Sarmatia until the movie begins, possibly later. Mostly one-shots, but all connected. Rated T for language, sexual references, and violence. Part of the Knights of the Round Table series, but not part of the main storyline of that collection.





	1. Gawain

“Father!” the delighted cry rang out across the plain as a ten-year-old boy with wild bronze curls and deep blue eyes raced towards the looming figure of his father on the horizon. Lot had been gone for over a week on a hunting trip with several other men from the village, and his sons had missed him.

Lot grinned broadly and scooped his eldest child up into his arms, the other two not far behind. Gawain, the eldest, was set down and the other two, seven-year-old Aggravaine and two-year-old Gaheris, were swept into a tight hug by their father.

“How are my young warriors?” Lot boomed. He was not a quiet man, nor were his boys, and their mother Morgause often complained about the lack of peace in their hut. As the boys gabbered about what had happened in the week he’d been gone, his smile faltered as he watched Gawain. The boy was small and wiry, only a few inches taller than Aggravaine, despite the three years between them. His size wasn’t what gave his father pause, though; Lot knew that within the next few days, a Roman contingent would arrive in the village and take all of the boys they decided were old enough for service in the Roman military, as they did every five or six years. Lot’s hunting group had seen the Romans in the next village over as they returned home, and he understood that in only a short time, his oldest son would be stolen from him, likely never to return. Their village was small, and few boys would be old enough for the Romans to take; there was Tor, a brawny fourteen-year-old, the son of Lot’s closest friend, Pellinore, and Cynan, a gangly twelve-year-old and one of Tor’s best friends. Gawain was the next oldest, at ten. The greatest fear was that the Romans would demand more than three boys and take Pellinore’s next son, eight-year-old Aglovale, and Ywain, Cynan’s nine-year-old cousin. Gawain himself was hardly old enough to be taken—to be honest, none of the boys the Romans ever took were old enough, in Lot’s opinion—but he knew there was little hope that the centurions would settle for just Tor and Cynan.

When they reached the family’s small hut, Lot left his sons outside to play and went in to his wife, Morgause. She stood over a low cooking fire, making dinner for the family, and offered him a busy smile and quick greeting before turning back to her work.

“Morgause,” Lot murmured, kneeling beside his wife. He took her in for a moment: she had the wild tumble of bronze curls that two of his three sons (Gawain and Aggravaine) boasted as well, and the deep blue eyes that they all shared.

Morgause turned when she caught the fear in her husband’s voice, meeting his gaze firmly. Without him saying a word, she understood what the source of that fear was and a hand flew up to cover her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Lot nodded wordlessly and pulled her into a tight hug. They sat by the fire until Morgause pulled away to tend to dinner, her eyes now dry but rimmed with red.

“Call the boys to supper,” she said brusquely, readying dishes for them to eat off of. Lot nodded and stepped outside.

“Gawain!” he called, seeing that the boys had wandered down to the river near the hut. “Aggravaine! Gaheris!”

The three boys hurried up the sloping bank of the river to the hut, Gawain helping Gaheris up. On the other side of the river was the village proper, although over half of the tribe’s members lived even further from it than Lot and his family. Dinner was eaten in silence (or as close to silence as the family ever came), the boys sensing the despairing mood of their parents and electing to keep their rabble-rousing and mischief-making to a minimum. After dinner, Lot took the boys to bed, despite Gawain and Aggravaine’s protests that they were not at all tired.

Once all three boys were settled for the night, Lot left the hut to find his wife seated on the ground, knees pulled up to her chest with her arms wrapped around them, staring up at the stars. With a sigh, he sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close before he too turned his gaze to the sky. They sat for a long time together before Lot finally pulled his wife inside to sleep.

Too early the next morning, Lot and Morgause were woken by a horse galloping up to their hut, followed by a banging on the door. A disgruntled Lot flung the door open to find Tor standing on the other side, a look of sheer panic on his face.

“Romans,” Lot breathed. It wasn’t a question, but Tor nodded an affirmative anyways. Lot sighed but nodded, clapping a hand on Tor’s shoulder before the boy spun on his heel and hurried to remount his horse and continue into the village.

“They’re here,” Morgause murmured, horror in her eyes as she looked at her husband.

“Get the boys,” Lot instructed firmly. “Help Gawain to pack his things. I’ll get Aggravaine and Gaheris dressed.”

The couple moved numbly as they prepared the boys, not answering their incessant questions about what was going on. Finally, they were ready and headed down to the village. Pellinore and his wife stood together, their younger two sons and their daughter at their feet as they bid Tor farewell. The Romans were already there, a terrified Cynan among the Sarmatian boys behind them, waiting impatiently.

The Roman commander stepped forward, jabbing a finger down at Gawain. “How old is he?” he asked roughly.

“Ten,” Lot growled in reply.

“Old enough,” the Roman man said. “Say your goodbyes,” he added over his shoulder as he rejoined his men.

“Father?” Gawain asked, voice trembling as Lot crouched in front of him.

“Gawain, do you remember what I told you happens when the Romans come to the village?” Lot asked softly, pushing his son’s unruly curls out of his eyes.

“Yes,” Gawain nodded. Realization dawned in his eyes: “Do you mean that I am going with them to fight?”

“Yes,” Lot pulled his son into a tight hug, a lump forming in his throat. He felt tears overflow his eyes as he released Gawain.

Morgause leaned down and wrapped Gawain into her own tight embrace, sobbing softly into his bronze curls. When she released the boy, he smiled up at her. “Don’t worry, mother, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Lot and Morgause picked up their other boys and wrapped their free arms around each other as Gawain trotted to Tor’s side and took the older boy’s hand before joining the Romans. As soon as the boys joined them, the Romans turned their horses and herded the group of boys out of the village and away from their families. Gawain glanced behind him one more time as they left, waving to his parents and brothers with the hand that wasn’t held by Tor’s, then turned forwards once again, determined to neither look back or cry.

“Gawain, here,” Tor said suddenly, lifting the little boy up. “You ride Gringolet.”

“I can’t ride your horse,” Gawain said, eyes wide.

“Sure you can,” Tor laughed. “You’re too little to walk to wherever the Romans are taking us. Just ride, at least for now, okay?”

“Okay,” Gawain agreed after a pause, settling down onto Gringolet. He bit back the urge to look back again, promising himself that the next time he saw his family and his village would be when he returned—free—from his Roman conscription.


	2. Tristan

Tristan ducked around a corner, getting out of sight just in time as Brangien, Iseult’s handmaiden, opened the door to his lover’s chambers. He let out a sigh of relief at having escaped discovery and turned only to collide with a warm body. Tristan stifled a scream as he staggered back, almost losing his balance.

“What the  _ hell _ do you think you’re doing?” Kahedan, Tristan’s best friend and Iseult’s younger brother, snarled at his friend.

“Um…” Tristan, at a loss for words, looked furtively for an escape, to no avail as Kahedan grabbed his arms and shoved him into the wall behind him. Tristan grunted as the air was forced from his lungs, and he barely escaped having his head slammed into the wall.

“How incredibly  _ stupid _ can you be!?” Kahedan growled. “She’s the  _ princess _ . She’s married to your  _ uncle _ !”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tristan snapped, wriggling free from Kahedan’s grip and shoving his friend away. “You think I  _ want _ to be here?”

“Why else would you be here?” Kahedan quipped, crossing his arms. He was shorter and smaller than Tristan, but packed a punch and Tristan kept a wary eye on his balled fists.

“Because I can’t help it,” Tristan glowered, spinning on his heel and storming away. Hurried footsteps behind him informed him that Kahedan was following.

“Well, learn to help it,” Kahedan shot towards Tristan’s back. “Do you realize what Mark will do if he catches you with her?”

“Yes,” Tristan snapped, ignoring his friend behind him as he left Mark and Iseult’s large home—the perks of being king, he supposed—and headed for the nearby stables.

“He ordered that the last man who even  _ looked _ at Iseult in a way he didn’t like to have his eyes gouged out,” Kahedan continued. “What do you think he’d do if he caught you sleeping with her?”

“Cut off my balls?” Tristan suggested idly.

Kahedan spluttered for a moment. “No! He’d kill you. Especially if he found out that you’ve been sleeping with her since they were married.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Tristan whirled around to face his friend, bringing Kahedan up short. “Never have I  _ ever _ slept with your sister. We fuck, and then I leave. No sleeping involved.”

Kahedan’s jaw dropped and he stared as Tristan turned and walked several paces. He collected himself and caught up with Tristan just as the dark-haired man entered the cool, dim stables. Tristan sent the stablehand running with a single wicked glare, but Kahedan remained in the doorway. “You know what I mean,” he sighed resignedly, watching Tristan’s back as the young man saddled his horse.

“Yes,” Tristan shrugged.

“Do you have a death wish or something?” Kahedan snapped.

“Maybe,” Tristan shrugged again.

Kahedan glared at his best friend’s back, then moved into the stables. “Why do you keep doing it?”

“Fucking your sister?” Tristan asked idly, this time just for the shock value. “Because it’s fun?” he suggested with a shrug.

“Until you die,” Kahedan retorted.

“I won’t die,” Tristan replied confidently, mounting his horse.

“Mark would kill you in a heartbeat if he found out what you did with his wife,” Kahedan snorted. “He doesn’t care that you’re his nephew and ward, he’ll chop off your head and use it for decoration if he ever catches you.”

“Better not let him catch me, then,” Tristan shrugged, spurring his horse out of the stables.

\-----

Tristan spent most of his ride thinking. He thought about Iseult, about Kahedan, and about his uncle. Mark was a vicious, hot-tempered man. It was true what Kahedan had said; the last man who had so much as looked at Iseult lustfully had had his eyes gouged out on Mark’s orders. The night of the wedding, a guest had gotten overly drunk a pulled Iseult into his lap before kissing her bawdily. Mark had ordered the man’s hands and genitals cut off as punishment. There were several other incidents over the past few years of men losing eyes for looks or tongues for comments, and still others had been imprisoned for real and imagined moves towards Iseult.

Tristan finally brought his horse to a stop atop a ridge far from the village. He looked into the valley below, keen eyes narrowing when he spotted the bright red plumes of Roman helmets. Without another thought, he wheeled his horse around and spurred her back towards the village.

\-----

The Romans arrived late that night and informed Mark that they would be taking at least three boys from the village, preferably more. The next morning, Tristan watched as they tore three boys—one around thirteen, the others nine-year-old twins—from their sobbing parents’ arms. Tristan and Kahedan were safe, having the protection of Mark extended over them, but as he watched the soldiers drag the sobbing twins towards the group of boys they had already stolen, something snapped within him and he strode forwards.

“Let them go!” he called as he approached the centurions struggling with the thrashing twins. “Let them go,” he repeated when he reached them. “Take me instead.”

The Roman commander eyed him slowly. “You for both of them?” he arched an eyebrow.

“I’m twenty-one, and I’ve been trained to fight my whole life,” Tristan explained. “I won’t need much training, and I can start fighting for you right away. I’m easily worth both of them.”

“We’re supposed to take at least three from this village,” the Roman said brusquely.

“Then take me as well,” Kahedan appeared at Tristan’s elbow. “I’m eighteen, and I’ve been training nearly as long as Tristan.”

Tristan glanced at his friend, but turned back to the Roman commander, staring the man down. “Let the children go. Take us.”

The commander could clearly tell that Tristan and Kahedan would be better choices than the writhing boys in his soldiers’ arms. “Fine,” he said after only a few seconds’ consideration. “Let them go,” he ordered his men. The boys were released and sprinted sobbing back to their parents. “Saddle your horses and gather your things,” the Roman said. “You have half an hour. If you’re not back by then, we take the boys.”

Wordlessly, Tristan turned and made for his uncle’s house, Kahedan following at a jog. “What did we just do?” Kahedan wondered aloud, his eyes wide.

“Saved the lives of two little boys,” Tristan replied. “And I’ve saved my balls from being chopped off by my uncle for fucking his wife.”

“No, what you’ve done is traded one executioner for another,” Kahedan glared at Tristan. “Now Mark won’t get the pleasure of killing you, but some faceless, nameless enemy of Rome will take his place.”

Tristan shrugged. “We’re all going to die someday. If you’re afraid of being killed at the hands of Rome’s enemy, stay home.”

Kahedan had no response for that and left his friend’s side to gather his things. Tristan had few possessions to take with him; all he wanted was his bow and sword, as well as the light armor he had inherited from his father. He reached the stables well before Kahedan and had saddled both their horses by the time the younger man joined him.

“Thanks,” Kahedan muttered as he fastened a pair of saddlebags and his weapons to his saddle while Tristan strapped his armor to his own. When they were done, they mounted the horses and rode back to the waiting Romans.

“Ready,” Tristan glowered down at the Roman commander.

Wordlessly, the commander turned, remounted his horse, and led them away. Tristan and Kahedan found themselves walking on either side of a smallish white horse with a small, bronze-haired boy astride it and a dark-haired teenager walking alongside. Tristan ignored the boys as Kahedan struck up a conversation with them. Just before they crested the ridge that would lead them into the next valley, Tristan turned to look back. The village had resumed its normal routine, but Iseult still stood where she had when he had ridden away, her long golden hair blowing in the wind. He lifted a single hand in farewell, and she mirrored the gesture. Then a call from Kahedan made him turn, and he refused to look back again.


	3. Galahad

Galahad scratched his scalp and looked around the field he was working with his mother. Despite the chilly air, he was sweating from exertion. Around the pair, several other villagers were working. Galahad squinted as a form appeared in the distance, racing towards the field.

“Come quickly!” a young girl screamed at the workers. “Romans!”

Confused, the villagers dropped their tools and hurried along behind the girl back to the village. Just as she had claimed, there was a group of Roman centurions, as well as Sarmatian boys, in the center of the village. Their commander had dismounted and was arguing with the village elder.

“We are a farming village,” the elder was pleading. “A peaceful people! You cannot take our sons!”

“We can, and we will,” the commander sneered, shoving the elder aside. He eyed the gathering crowd appreciatively; the Roman soldiers had not collected boys from this village in almost a decade and a half, and there were plenty of teenaged boys that he could conscript for the Empire. “You and you,” he snapped, pointing at a pair of brawny brothers, one seventeen, the other fifteen. He turned, “you,” he selected another. “You as well,” he nodded towards a boy by Galahad’s side. Finally, his gaze fell on Galahad and he nodded. “And you. That is all.”

“Five boys!” the elder exclaimed incredulously. “You are taking five?”

“I could take more,” the commander turned on the elder. He whipped back around to the crowd. “You, you, and you two,” he selected four more boys, then turned back to the elder. “Is that enough, or should I take even more?”

Wisely, the elder chose to keep his mouth shut as the Romans pulled the boys out from the assembled villagers. Galahad held back sobs as he was ripped away from his mother, not wanting to anger the soldiers.

“Do you have any weapons?” the commander asked the boys roughly. When they shook their heads, he glared. “Five minutes to collect your things. Anyone late will be punished.”

The boys scattered, racing for their homes. Within minutes, they had all returned, bearing small bags with a few extra clothes, cloaks slung over their shoulders. Once all nine of them were again gathered before the Roman soldiers once again, the commander led them away from the village.

Galahad glanced behind himself every few minutes as they walked, watching the only home he had ever known grow smaller and smaller in the distance. He lost sight of the village before he was ready to, but finally set his eyes on the horizon.

That was the day he began to hate the Romans.


	4. Bors and Dagonet

Bors grunted as his younger brother slammed into him, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. Nearly. He gritted his teeth and shoved Lionel away, sending him reeling backwards before he fell into the dirt. The younger man hit hard and rolled away, springing to his feet across the fenced-in practice ring. Just behind Lionel, their father, Bors the Elder, stood with three other boys: Bors’s best friend Dagonet, Meleagent, and Bagdemagus. All five boys were training as warriors; they were expecting Roman soldiers any day to take them from home to fight for a cause not their own, and, as Bors and Lionel’s father insisted, if they knew how to fight before they went, they were more likely to survive their fifteen-year enslavement to the Roman curs, as he had done. All five boys were over the age of twenty; Bagdemagus was twenty-seven, Meleagent and Bors were twenty-five, Dagonet was twenty-two, and Lionel was twenty-one. They knew the Romans usually preferred younger boys, but they hoped that the promise of five trained warriors would be enough to make them steer clear of the children and teenagers in the village.

Lionel and Bors sidestepped around the ring, keeping the other directly across from themselves as they moved. Meleagent and Bagdemagus, bored with the few minutes of inaction, tossed a few jeers at the brothers, but Bors ignored them. He watched Lionel carefully, waiting for his brother to make a mistake, as he knew he would. Finally, Lionel, glanced over his shoulder to tell Meleagent to shut up, and Bors sprung. He tackled Lionel, slamming his brother into the fence behind him and prompting Meleagent to take several hurried steps away from the ring. Bors wrestled his brother to the ground, pinning Lionel easily with his weight. Lionel squirmed wildly, trying to flip his brother off of his back, but Bors had none of it. After several long moments on top of his brother, their father called an end to the match. Bors rolled off of Lionel and helped his brother to his feet. The two traded grins and shook hands, then climbed over the fence so Meleagent and Bagdemagus could climb in.

“Good match,” Dagonet murmured as Bors came to stand beside him. “Good use of Li’s weakness.”

“He’s too easily annoyed,” Bors grinned wickedly across the ring at his brother, standing beside their father.

“You’re one to talk,” Dagonet rolled his eyes.

Bors shrugged and turned his attention to the ring, where Meleagent and Bagdemagus were wrestling on the ground, a tangle of flailing limbs from which loud curses flew at regular intervals. Bors snorted at the sight, and couldn’t resist calling a few taunts at the pair as they had done to him and Lionel. Beside him, Dagonet rolled his eyes again, and remained silent as they watched the match in the ring. Finally, Meleagent got the upper hand and pinned his brother. Bors the Elder called the match before Bagdemagus could get out from under Meleagent, and the boys stood and shook hands and stalked out of the ring.

“Dagonet, Bors, weapons,” Bors the Elder instructed. Grinning widely, Bors grabbed the practice sword leaning against the fence next to him. Dagonet laughed softly at him as he grabbed his own practice sword and vaulted over the fence to follow Bors. The two were just about to begin sparring when the sound of many horses riding along the road caught their attention.

Sure enough, a group of armored Romans, sporting their red-crested helmets, were riding down the road, followed by over a dozen Sarmatian boys and young men. Dagonet and Bors abandoned their practice weapons in the ring and joined Bors the Elder, Meleagent, Bagdemagus, and Lionel on the road.

“Hello!” Bors the Elder called to the approaching Romans. “I am Bors. These men are Meleagent, Bagdemagus, Dagonet, and my sons Bors the Younger and Lionel.”

The Roman commander eyed them up. “What of it?” he said finally.

“We’re your tribute from this village,” Bagdemagus said confidently.

“I present you with five trained, willing warriors, in exchange for leaving the young boys of our village alone,” Bors the Elder stared up at the Roman commander on his horse.

The Roman commander eyed the men on the road before him. They were all tall, sturdy, and clearly strong. Deciding, as he had with Tristan and Kahedan, that a few well-trained warriors were better than a larger number of untrained boys, he finally nodded. “Get your things.”

Bors the Elder waved his hand in a dismissal of the men, and they set off running for the village. Bors beelined for his own home, a small hut next to his parents’. He burst through the door and snatched his bag and weapons from the floor next to it.

“They’re here then?” a soft voice came from across the room.

Bors put his things down and walked across the hut to kneel by the bed set against the far wall, upon which rested a pretty young woman, a pregnancy bump beginning to show on her stomach.

“Yes,” he said softly, pulling her close to kiss first her forehead and then the bump of her belly.

“I will miss you,” Claire smiled softly, grasping one of Bors’s hands as the other came to rest on her stomach. “I will raise your son to know that you are a hero.”

“I’ll see you both in fifteen years,” Bors promised firmly.

“If the damn Romans haven’t taken him as well by then,” Claire frowned.

“My father will protect you both,” Bors insisted. “He won’t let them take him, and when I come back, we’ll all go somewhere where the Romans don’t steal sons and force children to fight their wars for them.”

“Give them hell,” Claire leaned over and kissed her lover’s cheek.

“I never do anything but,” Bors chuckled. He gave Claire one last, long kiss before standing and slowly making his way from the hut, picking up his things from the floor by the door. Outside, Dagonet and Lionel were waiting, holding their horses as well as his.

“How is Claire?” Dagonet asked softly as Bors strapped his bags and weapons to his horse.

“She’ll be fine,” Bors said firmly.

Dagonet didn’t respond as they mounted their horses and made their way back through the village to where Bors the Elder waited with the Romans and their conscripts.

Without a word, the commander turned around as they approached and began leading his assembled soldiers and soldiers-to-be away from the village. Bors did not look back, instead sending silent promises to Claire back in their hut that he would return to her and their child in fifteen years.


	5. Artorius

Artorius Castus watched as his twenty-seven new knights (or, for the most part, knights-to-be) streamed into the courtyard of the barracks they would live in during their time under his command. Many of them were riding on beautiful, regal horses, but several were on foot. Artorius stood at the back of the courtyard with Jols, his stablemaster, and Lucius Tiberius, the commander of the Roman legion also stationed at the fort. Artorius felt his face contort into a frown as he viewed the boys and men who dismounted and lined up before him at the prompting of the Roman commander who had collected them. Artorius’s eyes were drawn to a small boy with a head of wild bronze curls until a tall, dark haired young man stepped in front of the child, glaring at Artorius from behind ragged black bangs.

“This is your new commander, Artorius Castus!” Lucius shouted over the Sarmatians, stepping forward and drawing Artorius with him. “He will train you, and alongside you, and for the next fifteen years you will heed his every command.”

Artorius winced at the final phrase. Lucius silenced and looked at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat and took another step forward to address his men. “I look forward to knowing each of you, and am honored to have been given the privilege of commanding you all. This is Jols.”—he gestured for the stablemaster to step forward—“Jols will be helping you all get your horses stabled, and then direct you to your rooms. Once you have settled, report to me in the meeting hall.”

“And how are we supposed to find this meeting hall?” a stocky, barrel-chested knight with powerfully-muscled limbs and a shaven head called from the ranks.

“Ask someone,” Artorius smirked slightly, then turned on his heel. Lucius followed him, leaving Jols in charge of the recruits.

\-----

The first to find the meeting hall was a tall, thin boy, around the age of fourteen or fifteen, with a head of black curls. His pale face was smeared with dirt, and he stared blankly at Arthur when he entered.

“Hello,” Artorius smiled kindly at the teen. “What is your name?”

“Lancelot,” the boy answered warily, taking in the large room with flickering brown eyes.

“Lancelot,” Artorius repeated, committing the name to memory. “Take a seat,” he added, gesturing at the large round table behind him.

“Where?” Lancelot asked, confused and suspecting a Roman trick.

“Wherever you’d like,” Artorius reassured him. “We are all equals here.”

Lancelot took a seat at the table as a pair of knights, clearly brothers, entered the room. They looked around with more awe and less caution than Lancelot had before coming to a stop before Artorius.

“Names?” Artorius prompted.

“Balan,” the slightly taller boy replied.

“Balin,” the shorter added.

Artorius blinked. These two would be difficult to tell apart; besides that Balan was slightly taller, they were mostly identical: sturdy and strong, with shoulder length dark hair and wide eyes, as well as the beginnings of scraggly beards. He gave up on trying to find a difference and just nodded and smiled. “Please, sit down wherever you’d like.”

The boys traded glances before settling into a pair of seats halfway around the table from Lancelot. Several more boys entered, and Artorius memorized their names as they were given to him: brothers Palomides, Safir, and Segwarides; Bruin; Hector; Morholt; Durnure. He lifted an eyebrow as the young man with the dark, ragged hair swaggered into the room.

“Tristan,” he said before Artorius could ask his name. He eyed Artorius with uncomfortably keen dark eyes before sauntering to a seat at the table.

Next was a boy near Tristan’s age with tawny gold hair and light green eyes. “Kahedan,” he gave his name when prompted, then took the seat to Tristan’s right.

Next came the little boy with bronze curls, followed closely by a brawny, dark-haired teenager. Artorius knelt to address the small boy, his heart breaking at his youth. “What is your name?” he asked kindly.

“Gawain,” the child answered, staring into Artorius’s pale green eyes with his own deep blue ones.

“How old are you?” Artorius gave into his curiosity.

“Ten,” Gawain said proudly. “I’m skinny for my size.”

The boy behind Gawain laughed. “You mean you’re short for your age,” he corrected, and Gawain nodded vigorously, his bronze curls bouncing. “I’m Tor,” the dark-haired boy added as Artorius stood and looked at him.

“I am glad to meet you both,” Artorius smiled. “Please, sit down.”

The boys followed his instructions, Tor taking the seat next to Kahedan and Gawain sitting next to him.

Several more entered the room, and Artorius continued to memorize their names: Meleagent and Bagdemagus; Meliodas and Guiron; Esclados; Epinogres; Tom; and Loholt. Just behind Loholt came a pair of boys, one with shaggy dark curls and one with fiery red hair.

“Cynan,” the redhead gave his name when prompted, then slipped past Arthur to sit next to Gawain.

“And you?” Artorius turned to the dark-haired boy, who was staring viciously at him.

“Galahad,” the boy practically spat before shouldering past Arthur and plopping into the seat next to Cynan.

Artorius sighed. That was one to watch out for. He was nearly ready to turn and take his own seat at the table when three final men barreled into the room. At their head was the burly man who had asked Artorius where the meeting room was earlier. Following him was a considerably taller and only slightly less stocky man, and finally a man who was clearly brother to the first, although noticeably smaller in girth.

“Bors,” the first gave his name when prompted. The other two named themselves as Dagonet and Lionel respectively. When Artorius directed them to the table, Lionel took the seat to Tristan’s left, prompting the dark-haired man to lean closer to Kahedan, while Bors sat next to him and Dagonet took the final seat on Bors’s left.

Artorius walked to his own seat, marked by Excalibur, his father’s sword, slung over the back. Lucius had the seat to his left, and the one to his right remained empty. There were thirty seats at the table, and only twenty-nine of them. Artorius stood and looked around the table at his new men, then cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Men of Sarmatia: welcome to Britain,” he said. “As Lucius said earlier, I am Artorius Castus, and I will be your commander for the next fifteen years. However, I do not want to be simply that; I hope to be your friend, as well, and your brother in arms.” He made an encompassing gesture around the table. “This table signifies equality. Here, we are all the same. We may hold different ranks, be from different cultures, or be of different ages, yet we are all equal; no one of us is worth more than another, and our lives are all of equal value.”

He took another look around the table at the expressions arrayed on the faces of his men. These ranged from interest to annoyance to polite disinterest to downright boredom. Galahad looked outright antagonistic, and Tristan looked like he might have fallen asleep. Artorius turned his eyes heavenward and uttered a brief prayer to God begging for patience and wisdom in dealing with his new knights. He wasn’t sure how to manage fifteen minutes with the grossly varied men and boys around him, much less fifteen years. There was no doubt in Artorius’s mind that this prayer would be the first of many such desperate pleas.


	6. Vanora

Bors groaned as he was thrown onto his back by Dagonet yet again.

“What is that, five times in a row now?” Bagdemagus’s teasing voice came from the other side of the fence around the practice ring.

“I think it’s six,” Meleagent replied.

“Three,” Tristan corrected. The five, as well as Lionel, had been split from the younger knights to train together, often in close-quarters combat. Artorius and Lucius took turns overseeing their training, but they had been left alone for now. They were the six most experienced knights, and, besides Kahedan, the only ones who had been trained before arriving in Britain.

Dagonet hid a smile as he helped Bors to his feet and they climbed over the fence.

“Tristan, want to have a go?” Lionel grinned wolfishly across the pen. Tristan was the least skilled in close combat of them all, and the others took great pleasure in rubbing it in his face—especially as he outstripped all of them in most other forms of combat.

“I’ll pass,” Tristan replied drily. “But Badger looks like he could do for a round.”

Bagdemagus shot a lethal glare at Tristan. “Call me that one more time and I’ll snap you like a twig, scout,” he growled.

Tristan shrugged and produced an apple from his pocket. He proceeded to eat the fruit by cutting a chunk off with his knife and eating it directly from the blade, an action he knew the others found oddly unnerving. Bagdemagus glared at him for several long seconds before finally grunting and climbing over the fence. “Let’s go, Lionel,” he grinned wickedly. Lionel replied with a matching grin and clambered over the fence to face his friend. The two were at each other’s throats in seconds, grappling in the center of the pen.

Bors quickly grew bored with the match in front of him; he had known Lionel and Bagdemagus all his life, and had no interest in watching yet another futile battle between the two, who were so evenly matched that there was rarely a winner from one of their spars. Instead, Bors allowed his eyes to roam around the training grounds, taking in the other young knights.

Across the yard, Artorius stood with the youngest boys—Gawain, Cynan, and Durnure—and all of the boys from the farming village—Balin and Balan, Meliodas, Guiron, Esclados, Epinogres, Tom, Loholt, and Galahad—as he ran them through basic drills. They were working with swords today, and not doing well from what Bors could see. Gawain was too small to hold the sword properly, Tom started goofing off as soon as Artorius’s attention left him, and Galahad simply refused to unsheathe his weapon.

In another part of the yard, three of Lucius’s men were working with the next group of boys: Tor, Lancelot, Bruin, Hector, and Morholt. They were helping each boy develop his own style of fighting; in just the short year since their arrival, these boys had adapted quickly to warfare, excelling in most forms of combat they were presented with. As Bors watched, Lancelot, wielding two long knives, clashed with one of the Roman soldiers, while Tor swung a heavy axe at another. The third soldier was taking Bruin, Hector, and Morholt through a rapid series of sword drills.

The smallest group of boys was made up of those who had some experience or training from before their arrival in Britain. There were only four boys in this group: Kahedan, Palomides, Safir, and Segwarides. Kahedan was much more advanced than the three brothers—who, for some unknown reason, spoke only Greek when they arrived—and had been placed in charge of them. He was currently showing them how to string a bow and make arrows; tasks the Greek boys showed little interest in.

Bors turned his attention back to the pen in front of him as a loud grunt of exertion sounded from the pen in front of him. He looked to find Lionel pinned to the ground with Bagdemagus on top of him. Bagdemagus had a knee in the small of Lionel’s back and a hand planted between the younger man’s shoulder blades, keeping his face planted firmly in the dirt.

“Very nice,” Tristan sniped around a mouthful of apple.

“You wanna go next?” Bagdemagus glowered at the scrawny, dark-haired man. Tristan shook his head wordlessly and took a step closer to Dagonet as soon as Bagdemagus turned his attention back to Lionel.

The rest of the afternoon was the same as so many others over the past year: they spent most of it wrestling before switching to dulled versions of their preferred weapons. As the sun began to set, Artorius released the group, and the young knights scattered throughout the fort.

Bors followed his friends as they returned their practice weapons to homes inside the armory, then made for the tavern. Artorius didn’t care what they did with their free time, so long as they didn’t cause trouble in the fort. He grinned as he stepped into the muggy warmth and orange light of the tavern, enjoying the sounds of jollity and even the cloying smell of alcohol that clung to the place constantly. Meleagent led the way to their usual table, already occupied by a few of the other oldest boys—Kahedan, Balan and Balin, and Palomides.

Bors settled down just as a harried-looking, red-haired serving girl bustled to their table. “Gentlemen,” she said brusquely, setting a pitcher of wine and stack of cups on the table in front of them. She nodded politely and whirled off, back to work in the busy tavern.

“Who’s that?” Bagdemagus asked, watching the girl appreciatively as she fluttered about. “Is she new?”

“Her name is Vanora and she’s been working here at least since we arrived at the fort,” Kahedan replied.

“Really?” Bagdemagus mumbled, hardly paying attention to what the teenager said. “Know if she’s attached?”

“I don’t think so,” Kahedan shrugged. “She flirts with most of the patrons.”

“But she never leaves with anyone,” Tristan added. He shrugged at the surprised look they shot him; Tristan never flirted with the girls in the tavern, and hardly seemed to pay them notice beyond asking for another drink from time to time. “I pay attention,” he said by way of explanation, nursing the cup of wine he held.

“Maybe I’ll be the first,” Bagdemagus waggled his eyebrows suggestively, staring at the pretty girl’s sensuous body as she moved fluidly through the crowded tavern.

Bors rolled his eyes. “If she goes home with you, it’ll just mean that despite her fine looks, she lacks a brain and is therefore not worth it.”

“What, you think you’d be a better choice?” Bagdemagus teased. “Oh wait, you won’t try because you’ve got a pretty little thing back home. As if she’ll wait for you to get back before fooling around with someone else.”

Bors’s eyes darkened, and a stormy look came over his face. Before he could make a move for Bagdemagus’s throat, Dagonet placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing him down onto the bench.

“He’s not worth it,” Dagonet murmured in his friend’s ear.

Bors glared at Bagdemagus for a few more long moments before finally deciding that Dagonet was right. Wordlessly, he stood and stormed out of the tavern, nearly bowling over the redhead who had sparked the confrontation. He got back to his room and slammed the door behind him, then leaned against it, breathing shakily. He stared down at his balled fists and forced himself to release them. Dagonet—and Claire—was always saying that he did too much thinking with his fists.

Bors moved to his bed and sat down, head in his hands. Deep in his heart, he knew the reason he had reacted the way he did towards Bagdemagus’s taunts was because he was afraid of them himself. Fifteen years was, after all, a long time for an unmarried woman to wait for a man who might never return; for a man who was the father of her child, but could not care for either of them…

That night, Bors did something he rarely did: he spent a great portion of it in deep thought. Bors was a man of action, not of words or contemplation—that was Dagonet’s job. He fell asleep in the darkest hours just before morning and dreamed of a beautiful girl with pale blonde hair and laughing green eyes, a small boy with matching features by her side. Despite his lack of sleep, he woke feeling refreshed and in a good mood.

Bors joined the other knights in the training yard, pointedly ignoring Bagdemagus but greeting Lionel, Dagonet, and Meleagent warmly. Tristan joined them a few minutes later, the last knight to trickle into the training ground.

“With me,” he grumbled. “We’re at the range today.”

Bors, Bagdemagus, Lionel, and Meleagent groaned in unison. Archery was where the least of their skills lay, and they were each lucky to hit the target even half of the time. Dagonet showed no such reluctance for the sport, but Bors caught a small smile that flitted across the bigger man’s face. They trooped after Tristan, who seemed to even move smugly. While archery was the bane of the other men’s existence, it was his best event, and he took great pleasure in flaunting his talents.

Tristan sent Lionel and Dagonet to fetch arrows and bows while he led the others to the range. Bors glowered at the target across from him, willing it to magically draw his arrows to its center so that he could show up Tristan. The scout was getting altogether too self-satisfied with his archery skills—not to mention those he possessed with most other weapons—and could do with a dressing-down, in Bors’s opinion.

Lionel and Dagonet arrived shortly after them, Artorius and his pack of untalented youngsters at their heels. Bors huffed at the sight. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of not only his peers but the youngsters as well. He had hoped to get them to respect him—eventually, anyways—but doubted the possibility of that happening after a morning of sharing the archery range.

Lionel and Dagonet passed around quivers and bows while Artorius set his younglings up at the range. It was the first time Gawain or Cynan had even held a bow, not having been strong enough to draw one when they first arrived, and Galahad (as usual) refused to set himself up properly and required constant supervision by Artorius. The half-Roman put Tristan in charge of Gawain and Cynan while he focused his energy on the headstrong Galahad.

Bors found himself next to Tristan at the end of the line. The scout had quickly decided that he could not train two boys at once, and had foisted Cynan on Dagonet, the next-best archer in the upper group. Gawain remained next to Tristan, listening and nodding seriously to the scout’s instructions on how to hold the bow, stand properly, and aim and fire an arrow.

“Try it,” Tristan ordered finally, deciding that he had told the boy all he could.

Obediently, Gawain lifted his bow, settled his feet into the proper stance, and nocked and drew an arrow. Bors could see his arms trembling from exertion, but he had a determined look on his face as he narrowed his eyes and aimed for the target. He released the arrow and yelped in surprise and pain, nearly dropping his bow.

“I told you to keep your arm out of the way,” Tristan sighed, grabbing the boy’s left forearm and checking the skin there. It was already a bright red, and Bors knew from experience that if Gawain didn’t learn quickly how to avoid hitting his arm with the bow he would wind up with a nasty bruise.

“I tried,” Gawain protested.

“Turn your hand like this,” Tristan demonstrated. “Try again.”

Again, Gawain checked his stance, set his shoulders, drew and nocked an arrow, and pulled the bowstring back to his cheek. He released again, the arrow flying across the range.

“I missed,” he frowned.

“But you didn’t hit your arm this time,” Tristan pointed out. “That’s good.”

Gawain kept practicing under Tristan’s supervision, but grew more and more frustrated as he kept missing the target. After his seventh miss, he growled and stomped a foot. Bors couldn’t help but laugh at the gesture, and the child turned a malicious glare on him. “Sorry,” Bors chuckled. “Just keep practicing, boy. You’ll hit it eventually.”

“Yes, you’re the one to be giving advice about hitting a target,” Tristan taunted, earning a scowl from the bigger man. Tristan rolled his eyes and, in one fluid motion, had set himself up for a shot, nocked an arrow, and fired the projectile directly into the heart of his target.

His determination renewed, Gawain resumed firing, finally hitting the target on his tenth shot. By the time he emptied his quiver, he had a smattering of arrows sticking out of various points around the circumference of the target.

“Very good,” Artorius observed, materializing behind Gawain and looking at the boy’s target. He turned his attention to Bors’s and sighed, but didn’t comment. The man had only one or two more arrows sticking out of his target than Gawain had in his. “Tristan, why is there only one arrow in yours?” the commander asked.

“Don’t tell me the infallible scout has missed?” Lucius appeared by Artorius’s elbow.

“Hardly,” Tristan glared. “I’ve only shot one arrow.”

“Aren’t you meant to be practicing?” Lucius arched an eyebrow.

Still glaring, Tristan spun to face the target, raised his bow, and in the blink of an eye had fired off another arrow which flew straight across the range to split his first in half before burying itself in the very center of the bull’s eye, having pushed the first deep into the target. “I hardly need practice,” he quipped at Lucius.

“How do you do that?” Gawain demanded, eyes wide as he stared at the scout’s target.

Surprised, Tristan glanced down at him and shrugged. “I aim for the middle.”

Bors burst out laughing at the statement, both at the sheer obviousness of the statement and at the look that crossed Gawain’s face at it, part confusion and part ire. Lucius and Artorius had to chuckle as well, especially when Gawain turned his stormy blue eyes to glare viciously at Bors. Artorius walked away, back to where Galahad stood at the other end of the line, but Lucius lingered.

“Bors, this is for you,” he said, passing a folded piece of paper to the knight. “I got it from a sailor in the port. He said a man named Bors gave him the message on it and asked him to bring it to his son.” 

Bors stared down at the piece of paper in his hand, brow furrowed.

“What does it say?” Gawain asked curiously.

“Dunno,” Bors shrugged. “I can’t read.”

“Give it here,” Tristan held out his hand. Bors placed the paper in it, and the scout unfolded it. He read the words slowly to himself before reading them out loud to Bors: “My son: Claire has died in childbirth. Our sorrow is great and reaches to you in Britain. Be safe. Your father.”

Bors stared numbly at Tristan, a roaring slowly filling his ears. A concerned look came over Tristan’s face, and the scout said something that Bors could not hear. A hand on his arm snapped his attention to Lucius. “Bors, are you alright?” the Roman asked cautiously.

“Fine,” Bors snarled. He whipped back around to the targets, gripping his bow so tightly in his hand that the wood creaked. He nocked an arrow and drew it back so quickly that the string snapped and the arrow sliced into his arm as it flipped wildly over his shoulder. “Damn!” he swore, his grip on the bow tightening until the wood cracked and splintered in his hand.

Tristan stepped back, semi-consciously pushing Gawain behind him as Bors’s anger bubbled up. Before anyone could say anything, the big man had flung the remains of his bow to the ground and stormed away, back towards the fort. Lucius wisely opted not to follow him, instead moving down the line to let Artorius know what had happened.

\-----

Bors’s emotional state took him not to the medic—although that’s where he probably should have gone, based on the slice in his arm and splinters in his hand—but to the tavern, where he snagged a serving girl—by chance, the redhead from the night before—and demanded a pitcher of wine. The girl scurried away while he sat in the darkest corner of the tavern, picking splinters from his bleeding hand.

He was nearly done by the time she returned and set the pitcher on the table in front of him, casting a worried glance his way but hurrying away when he glared at her. He finished pulling the splinters from his hand and turned his attention to the wine. Bors drained the pitcher in no time at all, and signaled the girl for another.

Vanora set the full pitcher of wine down on the table next to the first, eyeing Bors cautiously. Finally, she cleared her throat to catch his attention. “Are you alright?” she asked gently.

Bors stared at her for several moments before grunting pointlessly and taking a swig from the new pitcher. Vanora sighed and snatched the first from the table, stalking back to the kitchen. First he nearly flattens her the night before, then he accosts her when he comes into the tavern, and now he ignores her! She set the pitcher down in the kitchen much harder than was necessary and glared at it.

Quite suddenly, Vanora spun on her heel. She snatched a bowl from a stack of dishes, filled it with water fetched from the well that morning, and grabbed a few rags on her way from the kitchen. She returned to Bors’s table and plopped the bowl in front of him. He stared dully first at it, then at her.

“Give me your hand,” she ordered. When he simply stared at her, she rolled her eyes and grabbed the appendage. With her free hand, she hiked up her skirts and straddled the bench beside Bors. She dipped a rag into the bowl of water to dampen it, then gently sponged at the gouges in Bors’s palm. He watched her wordlessly, occasionally flinching when she brushed the torn skin the wrong way. When Vanora finished cleaning the hand, she tore a rag into strips and wrapped them like a makeshift bandage around Bors’s palm.

“Arm,” she nodded to the other wound, the arrow slice across Bors’s right forearm that was still leaking blood. Numbly, he turned to give her access to it, watching as she tore away his ripped and bloody sleeve. The cut was shallow, but long, and had not fully closed over, and some of the scab was pulled off with the sleeve. Vanora winced as she pulled the cloth of Bors’s shirt away, sticky half-dried blood trying to adhere it to the skin of his arm. Wetting another rag, she set to work washing his arm and cleaning the sliced flesh. Finally, she wrapped the longest of her remaining rags around it, then tore another into strips and bound the first in place. “There,” she said, sitting back.

“Thank you,” Bors mumbled half-heartedly. As Vanora started to leave, he caught her wrist and pulled her back down. Vanora nearly slapped him for it, but when she saw the pain in his eyes, she settled wordlessly back onto the bench.

“What happened?” she asked softly, peering into Bors’s eyes, usually a warm brown but currently clouded with grief and drink.

Bors merely shook his head and took another swig of the wine she had brought him. Vanora glared at him, but sat quietly for a few moments. Finally, she snapped. She stood and scowled down at the miserable knight, then spun on her heel to leave. Again he caught her by the wrist, but this time she struck him for it. When her hand met his face, the cloud of grief and alcohol cleared from his eyes, replaced in an instant with anger. He yanked her closer, caught her chin with his free hand, and pressed his mouth to hers.

Shocked, Vanora went limp. When Bors released her, looking as shocked as she did, she fled into the kitchen, leaving the bowl, bloody rags, and wine on the table. She stayed in the kitchen as long as possible, and when she looked out into the tavern, Bors was gone.


	7. Archery

Galahad stared at the target some twenty-five yards ahead of him and fought the urge to glare at it. The other eleven boys in his training group were lined up beside him, each with a bow in hand and a quiver on their back, perfect little dolls for their half-Roman commander. Artorius had brought them to the archery range every day for the past week, and all of their fingers were sore and bleeding, callouses not having formed yet, and most of them sported large, colorful bruises on their forearms where they hadn’t quite learned to keep their limbs out of the way of the released bowstring.

Beside Galahad stood Tom, a slightly older boy from his village. Tom, despite his constant joking, had picked up archery quickly, and currently had about five arrows sticking from the center of his target. Few of the other boys had hit even near the bull’s eye. Galahad was, as usual, he was protesting the training he was being put through by the Romans, and had refused to fire his bow.

Artorius smiled and nodded. The boys were progressing quickly. Well, all but one of them. He sighed as he looked at Galahad, standing stubbornly facing the target with his bow held loosely by his side. His quiver was still completely full and his target empty, while most of the boys had empty quivers and full targets. After just over a year, the boy was beginning to tax greatly on Artorius’s patience. Once everyone (excepting Galahad) had emptied their quivers, Artorius sent them to collect their arrows from the targets and to return the equipment to its home in the armory.

“Not you, Galahad,” Artorius called after the dark-haired boy as he started to turn towards the armory.

Galahad whipped around and scowled at Artorius. If looks could kill, the boy would have no trouble fighting for Rome, Artorius thought idly.

“Back on the line,” Artorius placed a hand on the boy’s back and pushed him towards the shooting line.

“Why?” Galahad retorted bitterly.

“Because neither of us is leaving here until you’ve hit the bull’s eye,” Artorius replied.

“Then I guess you’re in for a long night,” Galahad snapped.

Artorius shrugged and stood, feet set shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over chest, eyes soft as he returned Galahad’s wicked glare with a blank stare of his own. They stood like that for several long minutes before Galahad finally broke eye contact with his commander, turning his head to the side and staring defiantly towards the nearby fort. Artorius sighed and relaxed his stance, letting his arms fall and shoulders drop slightly.

“Galahad, why do you hate the Romans so much?” he asked softly.

Galahad whipped around to stare incredulously at his commander. “Why do you think?” he spat.

“I’d like to hear your personal reasons,” Artorius explained. “I know that you all hate us for taking you from your homes and families and dragging you across the Empire, but what is it that makes you personally despise us so greatly?”

Galahad paused, looking at the ground between his feet. He kicked the dirt and watched a small cloud of dust rise from the dry earth. “There’s all that,” he said finally. “You made me leave home and come all the way to this awful, wet island, but that’s not it.”

Artorius waited patiently as Galahad continued to kick at the ground. “You made me leave my mother,” Galahad said after several long moments, his voice thick as though he were trying not to cry. “Now she’s all alone. My father died when I was little, so it was just the two of us, and now that I’m gone, she has no-one.” Artorius caught the slight glimmer of a tear escaping Galahad’s dark eye and tracing its way down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Artorius said softly, knowing all too well the pain of losing a father.

“But that’s not it,” Galahad said, finally lifting his head to meet Artorius’s eyes again. “It’s that… it’s the weapons.”

“The weapons?” Artorius repeated, his brow furrowing with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“We—my village is peaceful,” Galahad said slowly. “We have no weapons. We don’t fight. We’ve never had to; we trade with the other villages and keep up good relationships with them. They protect us if we need it, but we’ve never been attacked or anything. And now, you’ve brought me here to fight. You want me to learn to use weapons I’ve never touched or seen before to… to kill people.”

Artorius felt his heart clench. The boy was right; what claim did the Romans have over these boys that said they could all-but kidnap them and haul them to the other side of the world to an almost-certain death, ask them to kill people when most of them had never even held a weapon. What gave Romans the privilege of taking the lives of these children?

“I just want to go home,” Artorius almost missed Galahad’s wistful murmur, so deep in thought was he.

Artorius refocused on Galahad, the small boy with a wild mess of dark curls, a pair of wide dark eyes to match, and tan skin from spending so much time outside; the boy refused to wear pants and now stood in only a long tunic and calf-high boots, his knees skinned and scraped from repeated falls during sparring matches. There was a bruise on his jaw where Gawain had whacked him with an over-enthusiastic swing of his practice axe, and cuts on his arms from other blows that the boy hadn’t bothered to dodge. With a sigh, Artorius stepped up to Galahad and crouched in front of him, placing his hands on Galahad’s shoulders and meeting the boy’s dark eyes with his own green ones.

“If you want to go home, the best thing you can do is learn to fight,” Artorius said slowly. “You need to be able to defend yourself, keep yourself alive for the next fourteen years. Your life depends on your battle skills, no matter how little you want to use them.”

Galahad stared stubbornly back at him, but his gaze had softened considerably. Hoping that his point had hit home, Artorius released him, stood, and stepped backwards. “Go put your bow and quiver away.”

“I haven’t hit the bull’s eye yet,” Galahad quipped.

Artorius lifted an eyebrow. “Go, before I change my mind.”

\-----

The next morning, Artorius trooped his twelve youngest and least-skilled or experienced knights out to the archery range yet again. He lined them up as usual, and set them up to shoot. When Cynan’s bowstring snapped, Artorius left his usual post next to Galahad to check on the other boy.

“Galahad!” Gawain’s cry caused Artorius to whip around, worried about what trouble the stubborn boy might be causing. “Artorius!” Gawain’s excited voice brought the commander running to the end of the line. “Look!” Gawain pointed excitedly at Galahad’s target.

A single arrow stuck out of the center of the bull’s eye.


	8. Growing Boys

Drusa scowled as she scrubbed vigorously at blood and dirt stains in the knees of a pair of trousers. The pants belonged to one of the young knights in the service of Artorius Castus, and were, constantly, dirty. Not to mention the boys, especially the youngest, were constantly growing and needing new clothes. She had measured the youngest few so many times over the past eighteen months since their arrival that she could tell how much they had grown just by looking at them when they walked through her door.

Drusa was one of several women employed as washers and tailors for the Sarmatian boys and the Roman soldiers stationed at the fort, although the wild boys kept her busier than the Romans ever could.

She groaned inwardly as she heard the door open behind her and three pairs of footsteps enter. The boys were in and out so often that she knew the sounds of their footsteps by now. These were her three youngest visitors: Cynan, Galahad, and Gawain. The trio was nearly inseparable, and were some of her most frequent of frequent visitors. Galahad and Cynan had each grown over six inches since their arrival, and while Gawain hadn’t grown nearly as much, he was what Drusa called “rough and tumble” and always needed his clothes mended or patched, or had bloodstains from minor (and occasionally major) cuts and scrapes to be scrubbed.

“Hello, Drusa,” Cynan said brightly. He stood awkwardly in front of her, arms full of clothes that had probably grown too small in the past week since she had seen him.

Drusa sighed and stood, taking the pile of clothing from him. “Let’s measure you,” she said reluctantly, eyeing him up. He’d grown nearly another inch. She turned on the other two boys. “And what do you need?”

“I need my pants patched again,” Gawain admitted sheepishly, holding out three pairs of trousers with gaping holes in the knees.

“And that tunic,” Drusa observed, noting how ratty the hems were getting. “Off with it,” she prompted, setting the pants aside by Cynan’s and holding a hand out for Gawain’s tunic. He took it off with a sigh, and handed it to her, now standing only in a thin shirt—that he would probably grow out of by the time she saw him again—and pants with the remnants of at least three patches on each knee, and others elsewhere in the fabric.

“Galahad?” Drusa asked the final boy.

“I actually don’t have anything,” Galahad said. “I just wanted to come with Gawain and Cynan…”

“He wanted to get out of sword practice,” Gawain teased.

“Did not!” Galahad protested.

“Enough,” Drusa sent them a glare that promised she would take absolutely no nonsense from them today. “Go. I don’t need you here. Tell your commander I’ll have Cynan back shortly.”

The two boys nodded furiously and scurried away. Drusa heavily suspected that they were not going straight back to the training grounds, but didn’t really care. She turned to Cynan.

“Let’s get this done with,” she sighed.  _ Growing boys _ she shook her head inwardly.  _ It’s impossible to keep them dressed _ .


	9. The Talk

Bors watched as Lancelot, halfway across the tavern, leaned against a table. There was a smirk on the boy’s face as he chatted with one of the tavern girls, and he practically oozed confidence—but it was working. The girl was batting her eyelashes right back at the young knight, giggling at whatever he was saying, and flushing slightly. Bors nudged Bagdemagus with his elbow and nodded towards the boy.

“He looks cocky,” Bagdemagus snorted.

“Very,” Bors nodded in agreement.

“That’s not good,” Bagdemagus said.

“Not at all,” Bors agreed.

“It could lead to him getting a big head,” Bagdemagus said.

“And we all know that Lancelot’s ego doesn’t need any extra support,” Bors said.

“It certainly does not,” Bagdemagus shook his head gravely.

“So what should we do about it?” Bors grinned wickedly.

“What indeed…” Bagdemagus mused.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The next afternoon, Lancelot left the training grounds with a spring in his step. His conversation with Delen in the tavern the night before had gone well, until Josephus had scolded her for not working. Lancelot was hoping that he’d be able to get more of a chance to talk to her tonight, as soon as he was finished returning his gear to the armory.

Lancelot entered the armory, idly noting the presence of Bors and Bagdemagus in the corner, replacing their own weapons. He returned his to their racks, then turned to leave, only to find Meleagent blocking the now-closed door.

“What’s going on?” Lancelot asked, immediately alarmed. He wasn’t the only one among the knights who enjoyed playing pranks on the others, and revenge for past pranks was definitely not unheard of; he tried to remember of Meleagent, Bors, and Bagdemagus had ever gotten back at him for the last prank he played on them—or even when that had been—but couldn’t think of anything.

“We noticed you chatting with Delen last night,” as Lancelot backed up, he bumped into Bagdemagus. He looked over his shoulder and up at the much-taller knight, suddenly terrified.

“Yeah, I was talking to Delen,” Lancelot hoped he sounded far more confident than he felt at the moment.

“In fact,” Bors came up on Lancelot’s other side, bumping into the skinny boy’s arm with his barrel chest, “we’ve noticed that you’ve been having quite a few chats with quite a few of the girls in the tavern.”

“And they seem to be going well,” Meleagent added, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a step closer.

“They are,” Lancelot lifted his chin defiantly, “if I do say so myself.”

“See that’s the thing,” Bagdemagus moved forward, bumping into Lancelot and making him stumble.

“We just wanted to have a… talk with you,” Bors also stepped forward, bumping against Lancelot again.

“What kind of talk?” Lancelot asked warily.

“We just wanted to make sure that, should you have any further success with Delen, or any of the other girls, you know... where to put it,” Meleagent grinned wickedly.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Lancelot sat in the tavern, staring down into the still-full cup of wine on the table in front of him. He hardly noticed the whirl of cloth as Delen came up beside him, her skirts still swaying from movement.

“Hey there, handsome,” Delen said, brushing a hand against Lancelot’s.

Lancelot didn’t glance up. “Hi.”

“What’s wrong?” Delen asked, perching on the table next to Lancelot’s arm.

The knight flinched away from the girl, feeling the blood immediately rush to his face when he caught sight of her hip, his imagination quickly filling in what was under her skirts, based on what Bors, Bagdemagus, and Meleagent had told him that afternoon. “Uh, nothing,” he gulped, his voice cracking. “Just a long day. I’m tired.”

“Too tired to talk?” Delen lifted his chin.

As Lancelot’s eyes tracked up the girl’s body, he felt his face grow even hotter as his flush deepened. He quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact. “Yup,” he gulped as sweat prickled against his spine.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Delen pouted, letting go of his chin.

Lancelot quickly dropped his gaze back down to his cup. “Yup,” he mumbled.

With an exasperated sigh, Delen slid off the table and bustled away, leaving Lancelot alone in his misery.

The boy didn’t notice, but at the next table over, Bors, Bagdemagus, and Meleagent were barely suppressing their laughter.


	10. Lancelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot is the first in a series of five intertwined stories, which are ordered as follows:  
> 1\. Lancelot  
> 2\. Number One  
> 3\. Lancelot, Part Two  
> 4\. First Farewell  
> 5\. Number One, Part Two  
> Each story can stand on its own, but will be best read in this order.

The tall, gangly, dark-haired Roxolani boy kicked idly at the ground in front of him. He was, quite simply, bored. How one could be bored while training to become a knight among a legion of Roman warriors was a good question indeed, but not one that concerned him. What concerned Lancelot today was finding a way to un-bore himself, and that lay in Kahedan.

“Arms up!” the bellow snapped Lancelot out of his head just in time to have the brawny form of Balan smash into his torso, slamming him down into the hard, dusty ground of the practice arena and effectively winding him. Lancelot lay on the ground, stars before his eyes and gasping for breath, as Balan slowly climbed off of him. He vaguely heard a thump as someone climbed over the fence and dropped into the ring, then footsteps approached.

“Lancelot?” the worried face of Lancelot’s half-Roman, half-Briton commander appeared, hovering directly overhead. “Are you alright?”

“Ow,” Lancelot groaned weakly. Artorius sighed and helped him sit up.

“Anything broken?” another voice—Dagonet—asked from behind him.

Lancelot slowly wiggled his fingers and toes, then moved up his arms and legs, flopping the appendages to check for injuries. “Don’t think so,” he said finally. “Well, probably my pride…”

Artorius sighed and hauled Lancelot to his feet. “It’s your own fault. Pay attention. That goes to all of you!” the last statement addressed the twenty-seven knights and knights-in-training gathered around the ring. “Always keep your mind on the fight, or you won’t walk away from it. If Lancelot and Balan had actually been trying to kill each other, Lancelot would be dead now instead of just embarrassed and about to spend an extra hour in sparring practice!”

Lancelot spluttered as Artorius dragged him over to the fence. “An  _ hour _ ?” he protested. “For losing focus for a few seconds?”

“Artorius is right; do that in battle, and you won’t be able to learn from your mistake,” Dagonet said, climbing over the fence beside Lancelot.

“That’s cos you’ll be dead,” Bors added, leaning around Dagonet to mime dragging his finger across his throat.

Lancelot glared at Bors but bit back the comment that rose to his lips, not wanting to risk the further ire of his commander. After another bout in the practice, Artorius dismissed the knights, keeping back Lancelot, Gawain, and Galahad for further practice. Lancelot glowered at the younger boys; Gawain was kept late nearly every day, as he was so small that Artorius insisted on giving him extra training in just about every sport so that he would have a better chance in a fight. Galahad, on the other hand, had spent the first year plus some months refusing to train, and now had a great deal of catching up to do.

The trio spent the next hour in short, slow-paced spars with one another or Artorius, the commander making every effort to perfect their form. Finally, Artorius released them, and they scrambled off towards the barracks.

As soon as they were out of sight of Artorius, Lancelot slung his arms over the younger boys’ shoulders. “Boys”—he began, only to be interrupted by Galahad:

“Why are you touching me?” the younger boy asked, eyes narrowed.

“I’m getting to that. Be patient.” Lancelot whacked Galahad upside the head and rested his arm back around the boy’s shoulders. “As I was saying, boys”—

“You know, we’re not that much younger than you, really,” Gawain retorted.

“You’re nearly five years younger than me,” Lancelot pointed out. “Anyways, what I’ve been trying to say is this: it’s starting to get a little boring here. So I want to mix things up a little bit, but I need your help.”

“Boring?” Gawain repeated, incredulous. “We’re training to become knights. How is that boring?”

“Shut up,” Lancelot said, smacking Gawain’s ear. “Look, I have a plan, but I need you two to give me a hand.”

“What is it?” Gawain asked, curious.

Lancelot stopped and pulled the younger boys into a huddle, whispering furiously to them. When he finished, he stepped back, hands on hips and a proud grin on his face.

“That is  _ not _ a good idea,” Galahad muttered.

“I don’t think we’re strong enough for that…” Gawain said slowly.

“I don’t think we’re dumb enough for that,” Galahad corrected.

“We could get some of the other boys in on it,” Lancelot suggested, ignoring Galahad. “Maybe some of the others in your group.”

“Could work,” Gawain shrugged. “Who should we ask?”

“Balan and Balin, definitely,” Lancelot replied. “Tom, for sure. He’ll love it. Do you think Tor would join in?”

“Probably,” Gawain nodded. “Meliodas and Guiron would be good, too.”

“Okay, but no-one else,” Lancelot said. “I don’t want our targets finding out.” Gawain nodded seriously as Lancelot turned to Galahad. “Are you in or not?”

Galahad looked slowly back and forth between the other boys before sighing exaggeratedly. “Fine,” he grumbled.

“Good,” Lancelot grinned wickedly. “I’ll talk to Tor. You guys talk to the boys in your group. We’ll all meet up behind the armory two hours after training tomorrow. Remember, not a word to anyone else, except for the ones we want to help us.”

\-----

The next afternoon, Lancelot waited behind the armory for his partners-in-crime to show up. Balan and Balin were first, followed closely by Meliodas and Guiron. Tom came next, and finally Galahad, Gawain, and Tor with Cynan and Durnure in tow.

“I said not to tell anyone except who we talked about yesterday,” Lancelot glared at Galahad and Gawain.

“Sorry,” Gawain blushed. “Cynan heard me talking to Meliodas and Guiron, and he told Durnure before I could tell him not to.”

Lancelot sighed. “Oh well. Let’s get started.”

“You said you had a plan,” Tor prompted.

“I do,” Lancelot grinned. “Well, part of a plan.”

“How much of a plan?” Tor narrowed his eyes in Lancelot’s direction.

“Um… twelve percent?”

“Twelve percent? That is not a plan!”

“It’s barely a concept,” Meliodas agreed.

“It’s better than eleven percent,” Gawain pointed out, earning glares from Tor, Galahad, and Meliodas.

“Just hear me out,” Lancelot rolled his eyes. Over the next hour, the boys brainstormed, plotted, and planned their prank on the other members of the garrison—including their commander. They agreed to prepare and actually pull the prank in a week, and went their separate ways.

\-----

The week passed quickly, and soon enough the dawn-light of the big day woke the boys from their slumber. They plodded down to breakfast together, as usual, with their companions, then went off to training.

However, during the day’s training, something unexpected happened…


	11. Number One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number One is the second in a series of five intertwined stories, which are ordered as follows:  
> 1\. Lancelot  
> 2\. Number One  
> 3\. Lancelot, Part Two  
> 4\. First Farewell  
> 5\. Number One, Part Two  
> Each story can stand on its own, but will be best read in this order.

Bors grinned viciously at Tristan, who stood across the practice ring across from him looking like a wild animal backed up against a rock with no hope of escape.

“Get him!” Bagdemagus jeered from outside the ring.

“You have him trapped, don’t let him escape!” Meleagent advised.

“He’s faster than you, you won’t corner him like this again!” Lionel added.

Bors rolled his eyes at the shouts of his comrades, but ignored them. He had a plan for Tristan, and nothing was going to stop him from enacting his revenge on the scout for months of being shown up by the younger man in every sport.

“Bors! Tristan!”

Except that.

With a glare, Bors turned to their half-Roman commander, who blanched slightly at the look but recovered quickly. “Let’s go, all six of you,” he ordered. “There are reports of a Woad incursion a few miles down the wall. We’re going to check it out.”

Surprised, the men followed their commander to the armory to pick up their weapons. Inside the armory, they passed the rows of practice weapons, forgoing them for the stash of fully-sharpened iron weapons in the back. Artorius waited as they chose weapons, not having trained long enough to be granted their own, his own sword strapped to his waist. Once everyone was armed, they followed Artorius to the stables, where Jols had prepared their horses for them.

“There are more horses than there are us,” Lionel pointed out as he mounted his horse.

“Lucius is taking some of the others on patrol with him,” Artorius explained. “We agreed that we thought Kahedan, Palomides, Safir, and Segwarides were ready for patrols, just as we agreed that the six of you were ready to accompany me to check out this Woad report.”

Without another word, the knights mounted up and followed their commander out of the courtyard, exiting just as Lucius led the four younger knights into it.

The ride along the wall was uneventful, but the knights didn’t mind it much as it got them out of training. It was summer, and the weather was nice; the bright blue sky overhead was almost completely devoid of clouds, and the foliage around them practically glowed with vibrant green hues.

“Artorius, what are Woads?” Lionel called ahead to their commander. “You’ve told us that they are the native inhabitants of Britain, and that your mother was one of them, but that’s it.”

“What else can you tell us?” Meleagent seconded. “We should know what we’re up against.”

Artorius was silent for several minutes. “For the most part, Woads are just native Britons trying to live peaceful lives, but there are a few who are not so peaceful. Every Woad I’ve ever met—including my mother, to an extent—hates the Romans for invading their island, and they want it back. That is why they fight us, and do so in growing numbers. With each year that passes, more and more Woads join Merlin and stage attacks and ambushes against us.”

“Who is Merlin?” Dagonet, riding beside Bors, asked.

“Merlin is one of the elders of the Woads,” Artorius explained, “and as far as I can tell, he is their military leader.”

“I thought the Woads lived above the wall,” Bagdemagus said, confused.

“For the most part, they do,” Artorius nodded. “They keep to themselves, but occasionally venture south. Their forays below the wall grow in frequency as their numbers rise.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, until they arrived at the outpost that had reported the incursion. Artorius talked to the commander, then returned to his own men. “We’re going to go out and check the surrounding forest for Woads. Split into pairs; Bagdemagus and Meleagent, Bors and Dagonet, Lionel and Tristan with me. If you find anything, give a shout and we’ll all come to meet you.” He looked around at the assembled knights. “Stay safe,” he added as he remounted his horse. “We’ll meet back here in three hours.”

Each group took one of three paths that led into the forest from the main road upon which the outpost was set. Over the next several hours, they combed the woods for any sign of the British rebels, but found none. When they returned to the outpost and reported this to the commander, he seemed angry at not being taken seriously, but apologized for taking up their time and invited them to spend the night. Artorius declined the invitation, and led his men back to the fort.

When they returned, they went straight to the stable to hand off their horses to Jols. “Ugh, I haven’t done that much riding in a day since the Romans dragged us here from Sarmatia,” Bagdemagus groaned loudly, stretching and rubbing his backside as he headed for the armory.

“Maybe we should take day-long rides more often,” Artorius spoke up from behind them.

Bagdemagus froze, then whipped around. “On second thought, I’m not so sore after all…”

At the look of pure terror on their friend’s face, Bors, Lionel, and Meleagent burst out laughing; Dagonet chuckled and shook his head, and even Tristan managed a small smile. Soon enough, Artorius’s face cracked, and he began chuckling as well.

“Learn when to tell that your commander’s joking, Badger,” Tristan clapped the big man on the shoulder as he continued to the armory.

Bagdemagus’s face slowly melted, his brows furrowing to glare at Artorius, who was still chuckling. “I didn’t know Romans knew how to joke,” he muttered darkly before following Tristan to the armory. The others followed behind, the occasional chuckle still escaping as they returned their weapons and scattered.

Artorius headed straight for his room, hoping to get some work done before his eyes refused to stay open. However, when he opened the door to his room, he found himself inexplicably confused. For some reason, everything in his rooms had been moved to the opposite side of where it was supposed to be, with the effect that the rooms looked completely normal, yet completely wrong at the same time. Deciding that his exhaustion was getting the better of him, Artorius opted to go straight to bed.

\-----

Dagonet also headed straight to his room in the barracks. As he passed through the entryway, he idly noted Kahedan, Palomides, Safir, Segwarides, and a few of the younger knights huddled together, whispering furiously. Not particularly caring what had them so animated, he continued into the barracks. When he reached his door, he pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, setting his back to it and closing his eyes with a sigh. It had been a long day. He picked his way through the room along the path he knew would take him to the closed window—funny, he didn’t think he had closed it that morning—without running into anything. He threw open the shutters and turned around to discover that everything in his room was gone, leaving it completely bare. His shock gave way to amusement, and he left his room in search of his belongings with a smile on his face.

\-----

Bors, Lionel, Bagdemagus, Meleagent, and Tristan headed for the tavern when they had finished in the armory. Before long, they were drinking and flirting as usual. As the hours passed, Bors found himself growing more and more intoxicated, and Vanora looking more and more attractive as she flitted around the tavern.

Lionel caught the glances his brother was sneaking—not so well—at the red-haired barmaid and grinned to himself. The next time Vanora neared their table, he stood up quickly, knocking into her and sending her stumbling backwards in Bors’s direction. Pretending to be more drunk than he felt—which wasn’t too hard, as he was actually quite a bit more drunk than he felt—Lionel continued to stagger towards the tavern door, managing to run into several patrons, a few chairs, and at least one table on his way out. The rest of the night was in his brother’s hands.

Lionel stumbled back to the barracks and up to his room, not even noticing that anything was different. It wasn’t until he woke in the morning—very hungover, and not entirely sure he wasn’t still dreaming—that he realized everything in the room was wrapped in cloth: the bed, his chest, the small table and the washing bowl on top of it… even the shutters were wrapped, which presented a problem when he tried to open them.

\-----

When Vanora stumbled into Bors, he hardly knew what to do. Reflexively, he caught her, keeping her from falling. As they watched Lionel stumble from the tavern, his hands lingered on her hips. Vanora turned and glared at him over her shoulder; he responded with a blank glare, not sure what she meant. She started to pull away, but he tugged her gently backward, off-balancing her enough to fall into his lap.

“So, according to a friend of mine who is considerably more observant than me,” Bors half-slurred, half-murmured into her ear, “you never go home with anyone. How come? Have someone waiting in your bed?”

“No,” Vanora squirmed half-heartedly against his hands. “I just have my eye set on someone.”

Surprised, Bors relaxed his grip enough for her to wiggle to her feet. Before she could whirl back into the chaos of the tavern, he pulled her back and planted a kiss on her jaw, then released her. Through the rest of the night, he watched her dance through the crowd, his wine sitting neglected on the table next to him. Bagdemagus and Meleagent left at some point, unnoticed by him, as did Tristan, although it was rare that they noticed the scout’s departure.

Towards the end of the night, Vanora edged tantalizingly closer and closer to Bors, although she was very careful to never look his way. When she finally did, she was surprised to see the knight blatantly staring at her with oddly clear eyes given the amount of liquor he usually ingested. Slowly, she approached him again, pitcher of wine in her hand. “Refill?” she asked.

“Still got the one I had last time you were here,” Bors replied softly, nodding to the cup next to him.

Vanora cocked her head. “That’s not like you,” she teased, setting the pitcher down and leaning against the table next to him. “You usually drink enough for two or three men and have to be dragged out of here by your big friend.”

Bors chuckled, embarrassed. “Decided to try something different tonight.”

“And what would that be?” Vanora asked, leaning towards him slightly.

“Sober up and see if I could catch the eye of the prettiest girl in here,” Bors said softly, catching her wrist with his hand. “Looks like it worked.”

Vanora blushed but didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned forward even more, resting her free hand on Bors’s shoulder as she gently kissed him. After several long moments, she pulled away, biting her lip and looking into his eyes. With a slight smirk, he placed his free hand on the small of her back and pulled her close. Her slender body fit against his perfectly, as did her full lips against his when he leaned in to kiss her again.

They stayed there for a little while longer, and Bors was glad that he had joined Tristan in the darkest corner of the tavern on that particular night; the privacy was very welcome. As the tavern’s owner began shooing the most desperate drunks and canoodling couples out, Vanora pulled away from Bors and took his hand, leading him out from the tavern.

\-----

Several hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, Bors crept into the barracks. The fire in the front room had been put out, and the halls were as silent as they ever were. Loud snores reverberated from a few of the rooms that Bors passed; he avoided stepping on the creaky boards whose locations he knew, and finally reached his door with a sigh of relief. He opened it slowly and tiptoed into the room, shutting the door as silently as possible. Deciding not to open the window shutters as it was beginning to get light outside and he wanted to steal at least a few hours of sleep, he headed straight for his bed…

…Only to slam his forehead into something hard and wooden. He just barely kept in a bellow of curses, and instead felt along with his hands. The object he had run into felt oddly like… his bed?

Resignedly, Bors felt his way to the window and opened the shutters, allowing the soft pre-dawn light to filter into the room. To his complete and utter shock, everything in his room had been suspended from the ceiling, including his bed, which was, in fact, what he had run into. Furious, and deciding that it was too late to deal with the furniture right now, he snatched his blanket from his bed and returned to the entryway, where he curled up—with a great deal of difficulty—on a pair of benches that weren’t quite the same height but did well enough when pushed together made a decent bed. Promising revenge on whoever had suspended his furniture, he drifted off for a few moments of blissful sleep before the first of the other boys came down for the morning.


	12. Lancelot, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot, Part Two is the third in a series of five intertwined stories, which are ordered as follows:  
> 1\. Lancelot  
> 2\. Number One  
> 3\. Lancelot, Part Two  
> 4\. First Farewell  
> 5\. Number One, Part Two  
> Each story can stand on its own, but will be best read in this order.

Lancelot was so excited by the morning of their planned prank that he hardly stopped moving all day, often hopping from foot to foot when he wasn’t otherwise in motion. This constant movement earned him more than a few weird glances from Artorius and the other knights, but he didn’t care.

Shortly after the resumption of their training following lunch, he was surprised to see the oldest six boys—Bors, Dagonet, Lionel, Meleagent, and Bagdemagus—following Artorius out of the training grounds. A few minutes later, the next oldest group—Kahedan, Palomides, Safir, and Segwarides—left with Lucius. Perfect. Most of their targets were gone.

Two hours after their training had ended, the boys once again met behind the armory. Lancelot grinned around the huddle. “Tonight’s the night, boys,” he said. “Everyone ready?”

The query was met with a collection of eager nods. After a week of anticipation, even the boys who had been reluctant to partake in the prank were excited to pull it off.

“Okay, let’s assign jobs,” Lancelot said. “We’ll split into groups and target floors. I hope you’ve all been thinking this week, because we need to do something to each room, including our own.”

“Why our own?” Gawain asked, brow furrowed.

“Because if we leave ours untouched, they’ll know we were the ones who pranked them; it’ll be harder to tell who did what this way,” Lancelot explained. “Also, we’re going to need two or three people to distract everyone who’s still here—get them out of the barracks and all.”

“We picked a good day for this; ten of our targets are gone,” Tom grinned. “That’ll make it easier. There are only six people we have to distract.”

“Anyone want to volunteer as a distraction?” Lancelot looked around.

“I’ll do it,” Galahad said.

“Me too,” Cynan volunteered.

“What exactly should we do?” Galahad said after a moment.

“That’s up to you,” Lancelot shrugged. “It’d be better if you can split them up, too, so that they won’t know who exactly was involved.

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” Tom laughed.

“I’ll take Bruin, Hector, and Morholt if you take the ones from your village,” Cynan said to Galahad.

Galahad nodded in agreement. “I can do that,” he grinned.

“Okay, as for the rest of us,” Lancelot looked around. “There are… nine of us. And three floors of the barracks, ten rooms each.”

“But three rooms are empty,” Tor pointed out.

“Right, one on the first floor and two on the third,” Lancelot nodded. “Let’s split up into groups of three, four, and two. Anyone prefer a floor?”

“Balan and I will take the top,” Balin grinned. “We have plans for Dagonet and Bors.”

“Okay,” Lancelot nodded. “I’d like the first; I want to get Kahedan. Anyone else?”

“Second,” Tom said. “Just because.”

Gawain, Tor, and Durnure joined Tom, and Meliodas and Guiron joined Lancelot. Once they had decided this, they all scattered to do their jobs.

\-----

“How are we going to distract them?” Cynan wondered as he and Galahad made for the barracks.

“Doesn’t matter,” Galahad shrugged. “We just have to get them away from the barracks. I’m going to ask Esclados, Epinogres, and Loholt to play a game we played as children in our village.”

Cynan thought for a moment, then grinned mischievously. “Oh, I know what I can do!”

“What?” Galahad asked, curious at the redhead beside him.

“We’ll play our own prank,” Cynan grinned.

“On who?” Galahad asked.

“Artorius,” Cynan’s grin turned evil and he chuckled darkly, sending a chill running up Galahad’s spine. He grinned weakly and stepped into the barracks.

\-----

“Ow,” Tor winced as the side of Gawain’s boot dug into his neck.

“Sorry,” the boy apologized. He was balanced precariously on Tor’s shoulders, attempting to hang a bucket from the rafters in Segwarides’s room. The two stood just inside the door, Tom behind them, watching critically. “Is this right?” Gawain asked.

“Good,” Tom nodded. He moved closer and helped Gawain down from Tor’s shoulders.

“So, how exactly does this work?” Tor asked.

“The bucket is balanced on top of the door, but when it closes—which we’ll have to do gently—it’ll fall down just a little bit so that the bottom is just below the top of the door. Then, when Segwarides opens the door, it  _ should _ push the bucket over so that it dumps down the front of the door and splashes him. This one might not work.”

Tor sighed. “Well, let’s try for some that  _ will _ work. For sure.”

“Who’s next?” Gawain asked cheerfully.

“Safir,” Tom said. “But I can probably do that one alone, if you two want to pick a different room.” The three squeezed out the door, Tom slowly and carefully shutting it behind them. Durnure appeared from Palomides’s room, grinning.

“What’d you do?” Tom asked.

“Put his clothes in Balin’s trunk, put Balan’s in his, and put Balin’s in Balan’s,” Durnure replied. “They’re all close enough in size that they shouldn’t notice that the clothes aren’t theirs, but they won’t fit.”

“Very good,” Tom grinned.

“Lancelot’s room is on this floor,” Gawain said suddenly.

“So?” Durnure asked.

“So we need to figure out something really good for him,” Tor grinned.

Tom’s eyes lit up and he grinned evilly. “I have the perfect idea.”

\-----

Balan and Balin heaved and puffed as they pulled on ropes, looped over the rafters, to hoist Bors’s bed up from the floor.

“Are we even pulling?” Balin gasped.

“Are you on my team?” Balan retorted.

“Just represent! PULL!” Balin grunted. They hoisted the bed the last two feet, leaving it dangling at eye level, before tying off the ropes. A second set of ropes was tied off as well so that the bed was hanging level.

The brothers looked around the room, grinning proudly. The trunk and nightstand were also suspended at eye level, making the room a hazard to anyone over five and a half feet tall. Work finished, the reentered the hallway, splitting up to continue their pranks.

\-----

That evening, they trickled into the entryway of the barracks, where they usually spent time with the other boys, excepting those who went to the tavern instead. Galahad, Epinogres, Esclados, and Loholt joined them as the light faded, followed shortly by Cynan, Bruin, Hector, and Morholt.

The first of the older knights to return were Kahedan, Palomides, Safir, and Segwarides. They ignored the other boys gathered in the entryway, making straight for their rooms. Lancelot bit back a smile, glancing at the other boys who had been in on the pranks. Less than a minute later, they were rewarded with a very un-manly shriek and the sound of indignant clucking. Kahedan soon returned, arms full of chickens and looking furious. Gawain jumped up and opened the door for him, allowing Kahedan to fling the chickens outside.

The teenager slammed the door shut and glared around the room, his eyes finally settling on Lancelot and Tom, sitting side by side and hiding (poorly) their mirth. “Don’t doubt that I  _ will _ get revenge for that,” he spat before heading back down the hall.

Moments later, Segwarides arrived, dripping with water and looking extremely confused.

“What happened to you?” Guiron asked.

“Someone hung a bucket of water over my door to dump on me when I walked in,” Segwarides replied, taking a seat between Meliodas and Guiron.

Over the next hour or so, others left the entry, reluctantly returning to face the awaiting pranks. By the time Dagonet returned, only a few of the young knights were gathered in the hall: Kahedan, Palomides, Segwarides, Safir, Epinogres, and Loholt. They were furiously plotting revenge on the younger boys, and ignored Dagonet as he unsuspectingly climbed the stairs to his empty room.


	13. First Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Farewell is the fourth in a series of five intertwined stories, which are ordered as follows:  
> 1\. Lancelot  
> 2\. Number One  
> 3\. Lancelot, Part Two  
> 4\. First Farewell  
> 5\. Number One, Part Two  
> Each story can be read on its own, but will be best read in order with the others.

“Do you really think they’re ready?” Artorius asked softly, glancing around the courtyard at the training teenagers—since all of the Sarmatian boys were teenagers or older now, except Gawain, who was only 12.

“We’ll have to find out sooner or later,” Lucius sighed. “It’s been over two years since they arrived. Even the boys who knew nothing of fighting before they got are very skilled.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should be sending them out on patrols yet,” Artorius protested. “Half of them are still children.”

“So don’t send the youngest on patrol,” Lucius sighed. “Keep them here, but let them work the walls. They all need experience.”

Artorius turned, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Send Bors, Dagonet, Meleagent, Bagdemagus, Lionel, and Tristan,” Lucius pressed. “Or at least some of them. They’re the most skilled, and have the most experience. Tristan even has some combat experience from before he came here! And he’s an excellent scout. They could all go out on their own, giving you the ability to work with some of the younger boys. Or you could even have them lead patrols.”

Artorius sighed and shook his head again. “I still don’t like it. They’re just not ready. Tristan might be, but… Bors, Meleagent, and Bagdemagus are all too hotheaded. They don’t think, they just rush into things. Lionel isn’t much better. And Dagonet is the opposite--he’s too timid. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. It’s one thing to have him training under Erwan, but he hasn’t learned to put aside his desire to heal and help when he’s in battle. I just don’t think that they’re ready to be out there on their own.”

Lucius rested a hand on Artorius’s shoulder, lowering his voice even further when he spoke again. “Artorius, you’ve heard the rumors. Roman forces in other parts of the island are already starting to withdraw. My company was only sent here temporarily anyways, to defend Camelot until a new conscription of Sarmatian knights could be trained. If Rome pulls us back, you need to have at least some of your men ready to protect the fort.”

Artorius nodded reluctantly. He watched as Bagdemagus flipped Dagonet onto his back, to Meleagent’s cheers and Bors’s taunts. “Tristan. Bagdemagus. Bors. Dagonet.” He said finally. “I’ll send them on patrol today.”

As he was speaking, Delen, one of Vanora’s youngest tavern girls, burst into the training yard in a whirl of skirts and bright blonde hair. None of the knights seemed to notice her, and Artorius and Lucius watched as she searched the courtyard, finally settling on them. As she rushed over, she bowed slightly, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Sir, I need Bors,” she panted, winded from her run.

“Is something wrong?” Artorius and Lucius traded glances.

“Vanora’s having her baby,” Delen said. “Katell already took her to Erwan. She sent me for Bors.”

“Bors!” Artorius called, and the big knight froze halfway through climbing into the training ring. Artorius waved him over, and Bors approached. “Go to Erwan’s. Vanora is having her baby.”

Without another word, Bors was off, running faster than Artorius thought he’d ever seen him go. Delen offered them another half-curtsy and headed after Bors, although at a much slower speed.

“Well, looks like you won’t be sending Bors out on patrol after all,” Lucius smiled.

“Meleagent instead, then,” Artorius said.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Artorius went with the four knights to the stables. “Good luck,” he said to Dagonet as he watched the Sarmatian saddle his horse.

“We’ll be fine,” Dagonet reassured him.

“Right,” Meleagant’s head popped up from the stall beside them. “Anyways, it’s not like we haven’t been on patrol before.”

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Bagdemagus’s face leered down at Artorius from horseback. “We’ll manage without you.”

“Tristan,” Artorius turned his attention to the scout. “Ride ahead of the patrol, and watch the woods. You know how sneaky the Woads can be, and you’re the best at spotting them. If you see anything you don’t like, ride back to the others and return to the fort. We’ll send a larger party out to deal with anything you come across.”

Tristan nodded wordlessly and mounted up. His hawk was perched on the edge of his horse’s stall, but flew over to land on the scout’s wrist when he extended his arm. “You ready to go out?” the scout said softly to the bird, who cocked her head in response.

“Be careful,” Artorius called after the knights as they rode out of the stable, heading for the fort gates. “Come back,” he added under his breath.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Tristan ranged ahead of the other three knights once they reached the road, his hawk wheeling high above them. He could just hear Bagdemagus and Meleagent’s chatter behind him, punctuated occasionally with laughter. Dagonet was characteristically quiet. The woods around them were sleepy and still in the heat and humidity of the summer afternoon. All that Tristan heard was birdsong, and the occasional rustle of leaves from the gentle breezes that came to offer them brief respite from the stifling heat.

Suddenly, there was a scream from behind him. Tristan whipped around in time to see Meleagent hit the ground. Blue-painted figures were swarming out of the trees behind the others. Tristan heard his hawk screech, and watched her dive into the face of one of the approaching Woad warriors, clawing at his eyes. Tristan wheeled his horse around and spurred it towards the fray. When he got close enough, he leapt off of the horse’s back, slamming full-force into one of the Woads as it ran towards Meleagent’s body. He buried his knife in the neck of the Woad and fell to the ground with the body.

Dagonet swung his mace around, slamming it full-force into the side of a Woad’s head. The man’s skull cracked and deformed, and he fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. Dagonet aimed another swing at a second Woad, but the warrior dodged, throwing Dag off-balance. The Woad reached out and grabbed Dag’s arm, yanking him off of his horse before he could recover. Dag used his momentum to shove away from his horse towards his attacker, successfully landing on top of him. He felt a snap and heard a cry, then disentangled himself and stood, staggering backwards. A look of shock was plastered on the Woad’s face, but his wide eyes closed slowly as Dagonet watched.

“You must have broken his back,” Tristan materialized at Dag’s side.

“Meleagent!” Dag whipped around to where he had seen the other knight fall. Meleagent was still lying face-down on the road, part of an arrow’s shaft protruding from his side. Bagdemagus was on his knees next to the other knight. Dag hurried towards them as Bagdemagus toppled over, sprawling on the ground. Tristan and Dag were at his side in a second.

“Look,” Tristan pointed. A steady flow of blood was dripping out from under Bagdemagus’s boiled leather chest piece, already beginning to pool on the ground beneath him. Dagonet hurriedly undid the straps to the chest piece and pulled it aside. He saw a huge gash in Bagdemagus’s shirt and pulled it aside to reveal a matching rend in the knight’s flesh. Bagdemagus’s organs could be seen through the wound.

“He’s dead,” Dagonet said numbly.

“They must have gotten a knife under his armor,” Tristan murmured.

Dagonet pressed a hand over Bagdemagus’s face, guiding the knight’s eyes closed. When he removed his hand, he saw his own bloody fingerprints on the dead man’s pale skin. Wordlessly, he moved to Meleagent’s side. He rolled the younger knight onto his side, careful of the arrow shaft, and Meleagent gasped for breath. “Dag,” he panted. “My side… It hurts.”

“I know,” Dag said. “You were shot. The arrow is still in there. I can’t take it out here; I won’t be able to treat it, so I’m going to stabilize the arrow, and Tristan is going to take you back to the fort, to Erwan.”

Meleagent didn’t respond, although he was still--just barely--conscious, so Dagonet set to work. “Tristan, get my kit from my horse,” Dag ordered. “Then keep an eye out.”

Tristan obeyed immediately, bringing Dag the packet that held his first-aid supplies in seconds before remounting his horse to get a better view of the surrounding area. Dag stabilized the arrow in Meleagent’s side as quickly and securely as he could, but he didn’t like the look of the wound. The arrow had hit Meleagent in the fleshy outer edge of his right armpit, and was sunk deep and at a downward angle.

“Come on,” Dag grunted, hauling Meleagent to his feet. “Tristan!”

The scout turned and guided his horse over to them, but Dagonet shook his head. “Take my horse. He isn’t as fast as yours, but he’s stronger. Your horse won’t make it back to the fort carrying both of you.”

Tristan dismounted obediently, then mounted Dagonet’s horse. Between them, the scout and the healer managed to sling the now-unconscious Meleagent over the saddle--Tristan sat awkwardly behind it, now glad that he was riding Dagonet’s big charger instead of his own mare.

“I’ll bring Bagdemagus and the horses,” Dagonet promised. “Ride fast.”

Without another word, Tristan was off. Dagonet’s horse may have been slower than his, but it was still fast, and its hooves thundered on the path below. Tristan kept one hand on the reigns and gripped Meleagent’s side with the other, hunching over the knight to try and keep him on the horse should he fall.

Even at the fastest pace Tristan dared push the horse into towards the fort, it seemed to take them hours to reach it. Once they were inside the gates, Tristan had to contend with the crowded streets--it was nearly dinner time by now, and it seemed like the entire fort was out shopping for supper. But, finally, they reached Erwan’s infirmary, and Tristan dismounted in an ungainly heap.

“Erwan!” Tristan screamed into the infirmary, bursting through the doors, but he was greeted by Bors instead. “Help me,” Tristan demanded, running back outside to the horse. Bors helped him get Meleagent off of the horse’s back and haul the comatose knight inside.

“That’s Dag’s horse,” Bors said darkly as they struggled with Meleagent’s limp body.

“He was fine when I left,” Tristan grunted. “He sent me back with Meleagent. He said his horse was stronger than mine, so I should take it.”

Bors and Tristan heaved Meleagent onto one of the beds in the infirmary and began to remove his armor as Erwan emerged from the surgery.

“Stop,” said the Woad healer, and the knights whipped around to face him.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan demanded. “Don’t you need his armor off to treat him?”

“No,” Erwan shook his head sadly. “He’s already dead.”


	14. Number One, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number One, Part Two is the final in a series of five intertwined stories, ordered as follows:  
> 1\. Lancelot  
> 2\. Number One  
> 3\. Lancelot, Part Two  
> 4\. First Farewell  
> 5\. Number One, Part Two  
> Each of the stories may be read on its own, but will be best read in order with the other four.

“Congratulations,” Lancelot grinned, clapping Bors warmly on the shoulder. 

“Thanks,” Bors replied. He looked down at the baby cradled in his arms and smiled softly at it.

“How’s Vanora doing?” Lionel asked. 

“She says if I ever get her pregnant again, she’ll cut off my balls,” Bors laughed. 

“Can I hold her?” Gawain asked, standing on his tiptoes to peer at the baby in Bors’s arms.

“Sit down,” Tristan prompted, pressing a hand on Gawain’s shoulder and pushing him onto the nearest bench.

“I’m not going to drop her,” Gawain protested, but obeyed. Slowly, Bors lowered the baby into the boy’s arms. “Wow,” Gawain breathed, blue eyes wide as he stared down at the baby in his arms. “She’s so… little.”

“Well, if she were any bigger, it would’ve been even harder for Vanora to push her out of”—

“Lancelot!” Artorius said sharply.

“What?” the dark-haired knight asked innocently. He was met with a stern glare from their commander, and promptly shut up.

“Can I?” Artorius turned to Bors, ignoring the teenager beside him.

Bors nodded, and Artorius moved over to Gawain. He bent down and carefully took the newborn from Gawain’s arms. “She is little,” Artorius laughed. “The lightest thing I’ve picked up in a while.”

Bors laughed as Lancelot moved to peer at the baby in Artorius’s arms. “Can I”—

“No,” Bors and Artorius said in unison.

Lancelot rolled his eyes and sat down next to Gawain. “It’s bad luck, you know,” the bronze-haired boy said seriously, looking at the child in Artorius’s arms.

“What is?” Artorius asked.

“For Bors and Vanora,” Gawain clarified. “To have had a girl first.”

“What?” Lancelot laughed. The other knights reacted with amusement at the youngest’s statement.

“I’m serious,” Gawain exclaimed. “My father always said it’s bad luck if the firstborn is a girl.”

Bors snorted. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Gawain shrugged. “He was always saying how lucky he was that I came first, because it meant he was blessed with warriors instead of women. Mother always used to hit him for saying it.”

Bors threw back his head and laughed. “Well, if this little one is anything at all like ‘er mother, I could probably train her up as a warrior.”

“If Vanora lets you,” Lancelot snorted.

“Eh, she’d be proud to have a little fighter-girl to ‘er name,” Bors joked.

Smiling, Artorius handed the baby back to Bors. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” Bors asked, confused.

“For reminding me why I fight,” Artorius smiled.


	15. Ouch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: 3 years after the knights' arrival in Britain

Artorius hurried behind Lancelot through the streets of the fort. The teenager’s dirty black curls bobbed through the busy streets, clearing a path for Artorius and the burden he bore. Lancelot stopped at a worn wooden door, checked over his shoulder to make sure Artorius was still behind him, and shoved the heavy door open. Artorius shifted his burden and turned sideways to slip through the door.

Inside, Dagonet jumped to his feet when he saw Artorius and Lancelot enter. “Erwan!” Dag called into the back room, summoning the Breton healer who ran the infirmary. The man rushed out, saw Artorius and the boy in his arms, and immediately jumped into action.

“There,” Erwan ordered, pointing towards a table in the center of the room. Dagonet jumped forwards and helped Artorius rest his burden on the table. Dagonet rested a hand under the boy’s head, lowering it gently onto the table; bronze curls—matted with blood—splayed across the wood as Dagonet gently turned the head so that the vicious, jagged, profusely bleeding wound on its side faced upwards.

“Are either of you hurt?” Erwan shot a glance at Artorius and Lancelot on his way to the table.

“Not bad,” Lancelot answered for the two of them.

Erwan had already turned his attention to Dagonet and the boy on the table. “What happened?”

“We were jumped by Woads on patrol,” Artorius finally spoked. “They knocked us all off of our horses. We were fighting hand to hand… Gawain took a blow to the head with an axe.”

Erwan nodded. “About what I would have guessed.” He looked up at Dagonet. “Knife.”

Dagonet moved faster than someone his size should have been able to. He went straight to a tool bench at the back of the room and fetched a knife, then was back at the table in a flash. Erwan took the knife and began gingerly shaving away Gawain’s heavy curls while Dagonet held a cloth to the bloody gash.

“Will he be alright?” Artorius asked softly.

Erwan didn’t answer, focusing his attention on the boy in front of him.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Over the next several days, Gawain lay, small and pale, in the back section of the infirmary. His head was wrapped in heavy white bandages, changed regularly by Erwan, Dagonet, or one of the other healers, while either Galahad, Tor, or Artorius sat by the bed, watching over the boy. On the third day, Artorius was pulled aside by Erwan.

“Is he getting better?” Artorius asked.

“There’s no way to know,” Erwan sighed. “Not until he wakes up. And the longer he takes to wake up, the worse he gets.”

“Why is he not waking up?” Artorius asked.

“There’s no way to know,” Erwan repeated. “At first I thought it was because of loss of blood, but at this point… There is likely damage to his brain. If he does wake up, he may never be the boy you knew again.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain’s deep blue eyes opened slowly, staring up at the wooden beams of the infirmary ceiling. At the edge of the right side of his field of vision was a white blur which, from the feel of his head and face, was probably bandages. He groaned slightly and lifted his hand to the side of his head.

“Gawain!” Galahad cried, and Gawain heard a chair clatter to the ground beside his bed. “You’re awake!”

“Ouch,” Gawain grumbled. “What happened?”

“Don’t move,” Galahad said, then disappeared. He was back, moments later, with Erwan in tow.

“Gawain,” the healer smiled down at him. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” Gawain grumbled.

“Do you remember what happened?” Erwan asked.

“Yeah,” Gawain said slowly. “We were on patrol… And there were Woads…”

“That’s right,” Erwan nodded.

“One of them hit me,” Gawain finished, “with something heavy. That’s all I remember.”

“That’s good,” Erwan nodded. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” Gawain replied. “Here,” he added, raising a hand to the bandaging, but Erwan caught the appendage and stopped him from touching it.

“Don’t touch that,” Erwan added for emphasis. “You have a nasty wound there. It could be affecting your brain.”

“I feel fine,” Gawain shrugged awkwardly—it was hard to shrug laying down. “It just aches.”

“Good,” Erwan said. “Let’s sit you up—slowly.”

With some help from Galahad and the healer, Gawain eased up into a sitting position. He grabbed onto Galahad’s arm to keep from falling back again. “Whoa,” Erwan said, supporting the boy. “What’s wrong?”

“My head’s spinning,” Gawain groaned.

“You’re dizzy?”

“And hungry,” Gawain said grumpily. “And thirsty.”

Erwan relaxed. “Those are good signs. You’ve been asleep for almost four days. I’ll go get you some water and food, and Galahad will help you get comfortable.”

Erwan vanished, leaving the two boys to maneuvre Gawain into a comfortable position propped up against the wall. “I should go let Artorius know you’re awake,” Galahad said, stepping back.

“Okay,” Gawain nodded, then thought better of it. “I’ll be fine.”

Galahand nodded uncertainly, then turned and hurried out of the infirmary as Erwan returned. The healer carefully handed a cup of water and small loaf of bread to the boy, who lit into them immediately. By the time he was finished, Artorius had arrived, Dagonet and Galahad right behind him.

“Erwan?” Artorius called the healer over as Galahad and Dagonet went to Gawain.

“He looks well,” Erwan informed the commander. “He doesn’t have any memory loss, and he’s dizzy, but I hope he’ll be find once he eats something.”

“Good,” Artorius nodded, relieved. He looked at the boy, color already returning to his face and light to his eyes as he smiled and talked with Dagonet and Galahad. Artorius had no doubt that the boy would be back to normal in no time, and that thought gave him peace for the first time since he had carried Gawain to the infirmary four days earlier.


	16. Haircut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: About 3 years after the knights' arrival in Britain

“Sit still,” Dagonet pushed Gawain down onto a bench. They were in the courtyard outside the knights’ barracks; the sun was low behind the building itself, and most of the boys were in the courtyard—or off at the tavern—relaxing after the day’s training and patrols, and enjoying the extremely rare good weather.

Gawain squirmed helplessly on the bench as Dagonet wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. It had been two weeks since a Woad axe had struck a glancing blow off the side of Gawain’s head, and the resulting gash was finally beginning to fade into a fiery red scar. There was a poorly shaved patch of scalp around the scar, which had been shaved so that the healer could treat and stitch the wound itself. Now that the scar no longer needed to be bandaged, the shaved patch was painfully obvious against the rest of the boy’s heavy, shoulder-length bronze curls.

“Still,” Dagonet repeated, resting a heavy hand on Gawain’s shoulder.

“Ugh,” Gawain groaned. After being confined to a bed for over a week and continuing to be kept from training, he was having a hard time keeping still for longer than about five seconds.

“Still,” Dagonet repeated again, pressing Gawain down once more.

Finally, Gawain settled, and Dagonet pulled out his knife. Beginning around the scar, he began gently shaving away the dark blond down that had grown in the past two weeks, then moved on to the rest of Gawain’s heavy curls. When he was finished, there was a mess of thick hair on the ground at his feet, and Gawain’s head was bare.

“Finished,” Dagonet wiped the blade off on the blanket over Gawain’s shoulders. Finally free, Gawian untangled himself from the blanket and leapt to his feet. “Be careful!” Dagonet called after the boy. “Galahad!” he called as one of the other boys in the courtyard started to get up to go after Gawain. “Come on. Sit down.”

Lancelot snickered as Galahad, dejected, trudged over to sit down in front of Dagonet. “Shut up,” Galahad snapped.

“You’re next,” Dagonet added, not bothering to look up at the third boy.

“What? Why?” Lancelot demanded.

“Because you haven’t had a haircut in the three years since we got to this island, and you look like an unsheared goat,” Dagonet replied, taking the knife to Galahad’s head. He glanced around the courtyard. “Most of you do, in fact.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Tristan challenged.

“Cut your hair, one at a time,” Dagonet said patiently, already halfway finished with Galahad’s head.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The next morning, Artorius and Lucius were surprised to find nearly all of the young knights with freshly-trimmed hair—if not completely shaved heads—standing in their lineup in front of the commanders. The only one untouched—to no-one’s surprise—was Tristan, whose ragged, dirty hair looked exactly like it always did.

Every few years, Dagonet would get frustrated with the other boys’ state of appearance and would pull out his knife, sit them down one by one, and either cut their hair or shave their heads. Tristan was the only person able to escape these haircuts, not that that was a shock to anyone. Eventually, the boys learned how to escape the haircuts, either by cutting their own hair or find someone to do it for them. Dagonet still got after them—all—every once in a while, trying to get them to keep up their appearance, but after a while he gave up, and several of the knights became more and more feral in their appearance—notably Gawain and Tristan. But, looking back, he didn’t mind too much; he would’ve wanted them any other way. 


	17. Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagonet meets his godson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: About 3 years after the knights' arrival in Britain

Gently, Dagonet knocked on the door to Bors and Vanora’s apartment. There was no answer from inside, but after a few moments, the door creaked open and an exhausted-looking Bors stood on the other side. In one arm, he held his daughter, barely a year old; there were dark circles under his eyes, made more visible by the pallor of his skin.

“Hi,” Dagonet smiled. “How are you?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Bors growled, his voice soft to avoid waking the child in his arms.

“I came to see if either of you needed anything,” Dagonet kept his own voice quiet as well.

“Van’s sleeping with the baby,” Bors stepped back. “Come on in.”

Dagonet stepped into the common room of the apartment and shut the door carefully behind him, then followed Bors over to the solitary table that stood near the center of the room. Bors sank down slowly onto the bench, mindful of the child in his arms.

“Here,” Dag said, reaching out to take the little girl, which Bors handed over gratefully. As soon as his hands were free, Bors rested his arms on the table and slowly let his head sink down to rest on them. Before Dag could say or do anything else, soft snores began to reverberate from the big man. Dag hid a smile and settled down as well as he could on a stool by the table, adjusting the baby in his arms so that they were both in a position that would be comfortable for a long period of time.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

It was over an hour later when Bors woke with a start. He bolted upright and looked around frantically, looking for the child he swore he had been holding before he fell asleep.

“You okay?” a deep voice asked from behind him.

Bors whipped around and relaxed when he saw Dagonet standing there, Bors’s daughter in his arms. The girl was babbling happily, reaching for a toy that Dag was dangling over her.

“Where did you come from?” Bors slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes. Instead of helping him feel better, the nap had made his headache worse and his throat fuzzy.

“You don’t remember?” Dagonet arched an eyebrow.

“Uh…” Bors sat back down, rubbing his head. “I remember opening the door… And letting someone in.”

“That was me,” Dagonet sat down beside his friend.

“Sorry,” Bors yawned, rubbing his eyes again. “The new baby… Erwan says he has his days and nights backwards, and it’ll probably take him a few more days to get them straight. But every time he wakes up during the night, he cries, and that wakes her up, not to mention me and Van. We’ve spent most of the past two nights passing the two of them back and forth every time they started crying, falling asleep still holding them, and waking up to do it all again when the crying starts back up.”

“Well, if you need anything, any of us would be willing to help out,” Dagonet said, moving the girl so she was sitting on his knee and bouncing her slightly, eliciting happy little baby-giggles from her.

Bors nodded and slouched back down, resting his chin on his palm and watching his firstborn and his best friend.

“Van and I have something we wanted to ask you,” Bors said suddenly.

“Hm?” Dag looked up. “What is it?”

“Just a minute,” Bors stood up, heading for the curtain that covered the doorway leading into the other room of the apartment. From the bed, Vanora smiled at him sleepily. Beside her, their son was sound asleep on his back, one of his tiny fists holding her finger in a death grip. “Dag’s here,” Bors said softly.

“Bring him in,” Vanora said, slowly starting to move up into a sitting position.

Bors turned back and waved Dag over, then went to help Vanora sit up. The baby stirred when she shifted, then yawned, arched his back, and started worming around. “Shh,” Vanora shushed, rubbing her hand on the baby’s chest.

“Hello,” Dag grinned at Vanora as Bors took the girl from him.

“Come in,” Vanora grinned, waving Dagonet closer. Carefully, she picked her son up and cradled him in one arm, then grabbed Dag by the wrist and pulled him down to sit on the bed next to her. “Here,” she said, passing the baby boy to him.

Dagonet accepted the squirming little bundle, smiling down at the infant. “He’s so small.”

“Smaller than she was when she was born,” Vanora glanced at the little girl in Bors’s arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Dag rocked the half-asleep baby slightly.

“Bors and I had wanted to ask you something,” Vanora smiled, reaching over to brush her finger against the baby’s cheek.

“Yes, he said,” Dag glanced between his friends.

“Well, we didn’t do this for her, but there’s something about him that just made us think…” Bors trailed off, staring at his son.

“We were wondering if you’d be his godfather,” Vanora said.

Dagonet looked up at her. “His godfather? But, you already have Lionel; isn’t the point of a godfather to take the place of an aunt or uncle if something were to happen to the parents?”

“Well, in this case it’s a bit more of an… ‘honorary uncle’ position,” Vanora grinned. “Yes, they already have Lionel for an uncle, but, and let’s be honest here, if anything  _ were _ to happen to the two of us, Lionel isn’t exactly the sort of person who would be anyone’s choice to care for the children.”

Dag laughed softly. “I have to admit that I agree with that assessment.”

“And it’s not like the other knights aren’t going to end up being uncles to the children,” Bors added. “But you’re like a brother to me, as much as Lionel is by blood. You’re going to be part of these kids’ lives no matter what, so it might as well be official.”

Dag laughed again. “So am I the godfather of your son, or of all of your children by default?”

Bors paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Well, officially of him, but also her, and any more that come after.”

“More?” Vanora said darkly, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, you never know,” Bors said defensively.

“Yes,” Dagonet laughed. “Yes, I’ll be their godfather. His, and hers, and any others that may come.”

“Thank you,” Vanora said, resting a hand on his. “You have no idea how much peace of mind it gives me to know that Lionel won’t be the one—at least, not the only one—raising our children if anything happens to us.”

“I promise not to tell Lionel that you said that,” Dag grinned. “I’m not sure how thrilled he’d be to hear it.”

“Probably not at all,” Bors agreed.

“Then this is our little secret,” Vanora teased. “At least for now. Or, at least our purposes for making you their godfather are our little secret.”

“Alright,” Dag turned his attention to the infant he was holding and smiled down at him. “I look forward to watching you grow up, little one,” he murmured. “I have a feeling that you’re going to grow up a very well-loved boy.” He glanced back up at Bors, then Vanora. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one yet,” Vanora admitted, blushing slightly. “We just can’t seem to come up with one that suits him—and we are not calling him Bors the Third.”

Bors rolled his eyes and shrugged. “We’ll figure something out for him.”

“Eventually,” Dag teased.

“Eventually,” Bors agreed. 


	18. Number Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: about 8 years after the knights' arrival in Britain

Tristan stared uncomfortably at the door in front of him, steeling himself to knock on it. From inside, he could hear the sounds of Bors and Vanora’s five—no, six children. The lot of them were as loud and unruly as their father. Tristan both hated and loved the little bastards; he hated them because they were children and therefore unpredictable, and loved them because they were the children of his brother. Those who could speak referred to the knights—including Tristan—as their uncles, not that any of the men minded.

Finally, Tristan lifted his hand and knocked on the door. Seconds later, it flew open and he found himself staring down at the couple’s oldest child. The girl stared up at him, dark eyes wide.

“Who is it, love?” Vanora called from inside the house.

“Uncle Tristan,” the girl shouted back.

Vanora bustled into view, newest baby—already six months old—on her hip. “Tristan! Come in!”

The scout warily stepped into the house, following Vanora deeper into it. “I expect you’re here to see Bors?” she called over her shoulder.

“Arthur sent me,” Tristan replied. “How’s he healing?”

“Just fine,” Bors rumbled as Vanora and Tristan entered the room. However, he looked decidedly less than fine; the normally big, brawny man was laid in bed, looking positively small and pale. For the past two weeks, Bors had been stuck in bed, sick, which was why Arthur had sent Tristan to check on him this morning.

“You look fine,” Tristan retorted, voice thick with sarcasm. He stepped to the side of the bed and looked down at the older man.

“I feel it,” Bors grumbled.

“You’re looking better,” Vanora soothed, patting his arm reassuringly. A crash and wail sounded from the other room of the house, and she cast a glare towards the door. A second child began to shriek, and Vanora sighed. “Take him,” he said, handing the baby off to Tristan.

“I don’t”—Tristan began, but Vanora ignored him, hurrying into the main room of the house.

Tristan stood awkwardly, the boy held straight out in front of him. The two stared seriously at each other as the cries in the other room gradually quieted, thanks to Vanora’s soothing. The boy in Tristan’s hands burbled happily, swinging his legs in the air.

“’e likes you,” Bors grinned at the scout.

Tristan scoffed, never taking his eyes from the child’s. “He doesn’t know better,” he quipped finally.

Bors chuckled and leaned back. “What’re you doing ‘ere anyways? Usually Arthur sends Dag to look in.”

“Dagonet’s sick as well,” Tristan explained. “Not as bad as you, but Arthur’s ordered him off duty for a few days to rest.”

“Anyone else sick?” Bors asked.

Tristan shrugged. “Galahad and Gawain, of course. The littlest ones. Tom and Kahedan as well.”

Bors sighed and leaned back. “We’re weak,” he declared. “Open to an attack.”

Tristan nodded. “Many of us who aren’t sick are recovering. Half the Roman legion is down, and many of the villagers as well. If the Woads moved against us, we’d have no chance.”

“What’s Arthur doing?” Bors asked.

“Taking care of the sick,” Tristan laughed.

“Our ever-generous commander,” Bors shook his head and chuckled.

Tristan sighed and nodded. “Our only hope is that he doesn’t get sick.”

Bors nodded and relaxed into the bed. “I’ll be up again soon,” he promised.

“And we’ll be the stronger for it,” Tristan replied. The baby in his hands coughed and burped, catching his attention. Before the scout could react, the infant had sent the contents of his stomach flying towards Tristan. The vomit covered the scout’s chest and dripped down his tunic. Bors laughed uproariously. Tristan looked shocked, horrified, and disgusted all at once.

Finally returning from comforting her children, Vanora nearly ran into Tristan, who was making a hasty exit in search of her. “Take him,” the scout spat, thrusting the baby into Vanora’s arms.

“Thanks for the visit!” Bors called after Tristan, still laughing.

Tristan ignored his friend and stomped out of the house, closing the door firmly behind him and making straight for the knights’ barracks.

“What happened to you?” Lancelot, sitting huddled in a blanket by the fire, called to Tristan when the scout entered, letting the barracks door slam behind him.

“I am never touching one of Bors and Vanora’s bastards again,” Tristan called over his shoulder as he stormed up to his room.

Lancelot laughed after the scout. Huddled beside him, Safir shook his head and smiled. The two knights were still recovering, not yet strong enough to return to duty, but had been dismissed from the infirmary when Dagonet and Gawain had gotten sick, as the healers needed the beds. Safir was stoking the fire when Tristan returned, wearing a fresh tunic and with a wad of fabric in his hands. Before either of the younger knights could say anything, Tristan tossed the bundle into the flames, which licked at it eagerly.

“You can’t burn that!” Safir cried, horrified. The acrid stink of vomit began to fill the air as the fire gobbled up the tunic.

“What the  _ hell _ is that stench?” Meleagent growled from the doorway.

“The reason Tristan’s never having children,” Lancelot quipped. “Well, that and the fact that women are too scared to come near him, much less let him fuck them.”

Tristan glared at the younger knight, encouraging Lancelot to shut up. “But what is it?” Meleagent asked, approaching the others gathered around the fireplace. “It smells like Galahad after a night at the tavern.”

Lancelot laughed loudly. “Bors’s baby,” Tristan growled.

“You threw a baby in the fire?” Meleagent, exhausted from the extra duties demanded of them due to the sheer number of sick in the fort, became greatly alarmed.

“It vomited on me,” Tristan elaborated. “I’m burning the tunic.”

“You can’t burn something covered in vomit!” Meleagent protested.

“That’s what I said,” Safir grumbled.

“It’ll smell like vomit in here for a week at least,” Meleagent groaned.

Tristan shrugged and turned his back on his brothers, heading for the open courtyard. As soon as he was gone, Lancelot turned to Safir and Meleagent. “You know what this means, right?” his eyes glinted mischievously.

“What?” Safir asked cautiously.

“We have to think of some way to get back at Tristan for this,” Lancelot replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, you’re feeling better,” Meleagent rolled his eyes.

“We can’t start a prank war with half the Roman legion and a third of the Sarmation knights sick,” Safir protested. “Arthur would have us thrown in jail for the next seven years.”

“We can’t start anything without Kahedan, either,” Lancelot mused, naming the other major prankster among the knights.

Safir groaned loudly. “I’m going to bed. You think of ways to get yourself in trouble, and I’ll get some sleep.”

“Don’t get in too much trouble,” Meleagent chuckled, patting Lancelot on the shoulder and heading for the open air of the courtyard as Safir headed up to his room.

“No promises,” Lancelot mumbled, staring into the fire as it consumed the last of Tristan’s tunic.


	19. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poison ties directly into the story entitled "Poison, Epilogue".
> 
> Setting: About 9 years after the knights' arrival in Britain

Tristan groaned and rolled over, flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the morning sunshine peeping through his shutters.  _ Why did I let Bors get me drunk last night? _ He groaned internally as a crash and very unmanly scream echoed through the hall outside his door.  _ Why _ he moaned, rolling over and opening a single eye to stare at the door as several sets of footsteps approached in the hallway. He could hear muffled shouting that separated into three distinct voices as it got closer. With a groan of effort, he heaved himself out of bed and stumbled to the door. Opening it slightly, he poked his head out and watched the scuffle playing out in the hallway.

As Tristan had expected, the three figures in the hall were Kahedan, Lancelot, and Tom. The scout watched through narrow eyes as Kahedan got an arm around each of the younger men’s necks, pinning them against his sides. Tristan’s eyes scanned upwards and noticed something yellow-ish and gooey dripping down Kahedan’s blond hair, mingled with small white flecks.  _ Eggs _ he realized with another internal groan. Lancelot and Kahedan had been playing bird-related pranks on one another almost since they had arrived at the fort. No-one remembered how the tradition had started any more, although Gawain swore it had something to do with Lancelot filling Kahedan’s room with chickens while Kahedan was out on his first patrol.

“What is going on here?” came a low growl to Tristan’s left.

The scout glanced over to find a very cross-looking Palomides standing, arms crossed, in the center of the hallway. The other knight was dressed, although his feet were bare, but wore no weapons—which Tristan thought might have been a good thing, as the Greek knight (and his younger brothers) wasn’t exactly known for thinking things through.

“Eggs,” Tristan replied simply, then turned back to the rather interesting scuffle that was continuing down the hall.

Tom had managed to fight his way free of Kahedan’s grip, and Kahedan had focused all of his attentions on Lancelot, using his now free arm as leverage to tighten his grip on Lancelot’s throat. The younger knight was beginning to turn a slightly alarming shade of purple when Tom reappeared behind Kahedan, jumped onto the blond knight’s back, and slammed another handful of eggs on Kahedan’s head. With a roar, Kahedan released Lancelot, who fell to the floor, eyes bugging out and gasping raggedly for breath, and spun to grab Tom. As Tom was clinging to his back, however, Kahedan’s movement merely kept him out of reach.

“WHAT is going on here?” the demand was shouted from behind Kahedan and Tom, who whipped around to face none other than their half-Roman commander. Arthur didn’t look quite as angry as his shout had implied, but he certainly looked plenty cross at the conglomeration of knights assembled in the hallway.

“Sorry, sir,” Tom dropped to the floor and stared quietly down at his feet.

“Sorry,” Kahedan echoed, copying Tom’s posture.

Behind them, Lancelot coughed hoarsely and Kahedan winced.

“I don’t want to know,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. He surveyed the trio of knights, then sighed. “Kahedan, get cleaned up. Tom and Lancelot—don’t argue, Lancelot; I’m sure you helped to instigate… whatever this is. I want all of you in the stables in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” Tom asked quickly as Arthur began to turn away.

“You’ll find out,” the commander shot back as he headed out of the barracks. “Tristan, you too!” he called over his shoulder.

The scout groaned and rested his head against the doorframe.  _ I forgot about patrol. I really shouldn’t have let Bors talk me into drinking so much last night. _

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

An hour later, Tristan stepped into the stables and glared at the three younger knights lined up in front of Arthur at the other end of the stable. Jols and his newest stable boy were bustling around the stalls, clearly eavesdropping on the commander’s conversation with his knights. Tristan sidled up to Arthur’s side in time to catch the commander’s final line:

“…and I expect that to be the end of it. I don’t want to hear anything on the matter again.”

“Yes, sir,” the three knights intoned in unison—in a manner that both Tristan and Arthur knew lacked any and all sincerity.

“As punishment,” Arthur continued, turning to Tristan, “the three of you will be accompanying Tristan on his patrol today, instead of the Roman soldiers I had planned to send.”

Tristan groaned inwardly but kept his face schooled into a completely motionless mask.  _ And now I’m babysitting. Fantastic _ .

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As soon as their horses were ready, Tristan led the knights out of the stable and down the busy main street of the fort, making for the gates. While they were in the fort, they rode single file along the crowded road, but once they exited the settlement, Kahedan moved up beside Tristan, leaving Lancelot and Tom trailing behind them. “They’re probably plotting again,” Tristan glanced back at the younger knights.

“Let them,” Kahedan growled. “I’ve already had my revenge.”

“Oh?” Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Do share.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Kahedan grinned wickedly.

The two old friends lapsed into silence, travelling the worn path west along the wall. Over their heads, the blue sky was cloudless, although they all knew that those circumstances could change at a moment’s notice on this island. For the time being, Tristan opted to enjoy the warm weather and the sun on his face. In the blue sky, his hawk wheeled, diving occasionally to snatch prey from the field beside the knights.

“Well, it could be worse,” Kahedan sighed, glancing around. “Arthur could have made us muck out the stables for a week.”

“Don’t say that out loud,” Tristan teased. “He still could.”

“That’s true,” Kahedan laughed.

Kahedan was still laughing when they heard the whistle of arrows coming from the trees that had crept closer to the road as the fields ended.

“Woads!” Tristan called back to the younger boys, turning his horse towards the trees. Sure enough, a dozen blue-painted warriors tore out from the tree line, screaming as they raced towards the knights.

Tristan and Kahedan immediately drew their swords; the Woads were closing too quickly to risk readying their bows. A few feet behind them, though, Tom and Lancelot already had their bows up and were firing into the pack of Woads.

Tristan felled two Woads before he was dragged down from his horse by others. He went down swinging and managed to put his sword halfway through another man’s neck before he landed—hard—on the packed earth of the road. He heard a loud thud and a grunt as Kahedan fell as well. Tristan snatched the weapon of one of the men he had felled—a heavy, crude axe—and swung it up into the face of a Woad leering down at him. Rolling out of the way of the falling body, Tristan climbed to his feet, then nearly fell again after hastily dodging a blow from another Woad. With a screech, his hawk descended on the man, pecking and scratching at his eyes. The Woad screamed, falling to his knees and trying to swat away at the bird.

The fight didn’t take long; Lancelot and Tom’s arrows had taken down several of the Woads, and the four of them had quickly dispatched the rest. When Tristan had felled his last opponent, he looked around, taking stock of the battlefield. The horses had scattered and were standing many feet away, down the road in the direction of the fort. Tom and Kahedan were picking through the bodies, killing any Woad they weren’t sure was dead.

“Tristan!” Kahedan called, falling to his knees beside one of the bodies. Tristan hurried to his friend’s side, his heart rising up into his throat.

“Lancelot,” Tristan breathed, dropping down on the knight’s other side. His hand brushed over a nasty gash that stretched along Lancelot’s hairline. The younger knight’s eyes were closed, his face pale, except the blood dripping down it from the wound. “Let’s get him up,” Tristan said, lifting one of Lancelot’s arms around his shoulders; Kahedan followed suit on the other side.

“Tom,” Kahedan called to the last knight as he and Tristan dragged Lancelot towards the horses. Tom jumped up and ran after them.

“Hand him up to me,” Tristan instructed, passing Lancelot’s arm to Tom so that he could mount his horse. The two waited until Tristan was settled in his saddle to pass Lancelot up. Tristan settled the younger knight awkwardly in front of him, letting Lancelot’s head loll back onto his shoulder. “Ride as far as the next outpost,” he instructed. “Don’t get into any more fights. Let the Romans there know about the Woads in the wood, and tell them to be wary of any attacks. When you’ve done that, come straight back to the fort.”

“We’ll see you later,” Kahedan nodded, turning away.

“Kahedan!” Tristan called after him, catching sight of blood on his friend’s arm. “What is that?”

Kahedan glanced down and pulled away the torn cloth to show Tristan the wound. “Barely a scratch. It’s already closed over.”

Tristan nodded. “See the healer when you return anyways.”

Kahedan nodded. “Ride swiftly. We’ll bring Lancelot’s horse back with us.”

Without another word, Tristan wheeled his horse around towards the fort and spurred it into a gallop, leaving Kahedan, Tom, and the dead Woads behind. At full speed, the fort wasn’t far away; Tristan slowed as little as possible when he reached the gates, forcing his way through the crowd with his horse until he reached the infirmary. Unable to dismount thanks to the burden on the saddle in front of him, Tristan kicked the door in lieu of knocking.

“Tristan?” Dagonet looked incredibly confused when he answered the door, but the confusion quickly melted into understanding when he saw the other occupant of the saddle. “Give him here,” he reached out to catch Lancelot, and Tristan lowered the knight into the brawny man’s arms. As Dagonet disappeared into the infirmary with Lancelot, Tristan dismounted.

Tristan took his horse back to the stables first, then went in search of Arthur. He found the commander at the training grounds, overseeing a sparring match between Gawain and Galahad. The two smallest knights were doing well, each clearly striving to keep his opponent on his toes—a difficult task, considering how well they knew each other.

“Arthur!” Tristan called, jogging towards the commander. His shout distracted Galahad, who glanced away from his opponent for a split second—just long enough for Gawain to get his axe tangled around Galahad’s blade and wrench it out of his hand.

“Enough,” Arthur called, and the boys—Tristan found it hard to think of the two as anything but the children they had been nine years earlier—stepped apart. “What is it, Tristan?” Arthur asked, turning towards the scout.

“Lancelot,” Tristan replied. “We were attacked on the road. He took a blow to the head. I left him with the healers.”

“Take me,” Arthur ordered.

Tristan turned and headed back towards the infirmary, Arthur on his heels. He was dimly aware of Gawain and Galahad tagging along behind Arthur, but payed them no attention. When they reached the infirmary, Tristan opened the door and allowed Arthur to pass through first. He followed, leaving Gawain and Galahad outside.

Lancelot had been laid on one of the many beds that ran along either wall of the infirmary. He was pale against the bedding, and his shock of dark hair and scruffy beard made him look even paler. His head had been bound carefully in clean strips of cloth, but Tristan could see the faintest of red stains as the blood continued to seep.

“How is he?” Arthur demanded of Erwan, the Breton healer.

“It could be worse,” Erwan shrugged. “But head wounds are tricky, as you well know.” He looked pointedly at Gawain, peering through the open door with Galahad. “The bleeding has slowed, at least, but there is no way of knowing whether he will wake up.”

“I understand,” Arthur nodded. He too remembered the frightful few days that had followed the youngest knight’s head wound many years earlier. “And there is nothing we can do for him.”

“Not unless he wakes,” Erwan sighed. “Until then, we will keep him comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Arthur nodded briskly, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the infirmary, grabbing on to Tristan’s arm and dragging the scout after him. Outside, Arthur shut the door of the infirmary and pushed Tristan into the wall, his green eyes boring into Tristan’s dark ones. Gawain and Galahad, Tristan noticed, had finally scattered, and the pedestrians on the street paid no attention to the commander and the knight. “What happened?” Arthur demanded.

“Woads,” Tristan replied. “Attacked us on the road. We took them down. It wasn’t until it was over we noticed he had fallen too.”

“Where are Kahedan and Tom?” Arthur asked.

“I sent them to check in with the next outpost,” Tristan replied. “They’re to come straight back after that.”

Arthur nodded and released his hold on the scout’s arm. He turned and stared back at the door of the infirmary. “I don’t want to lose another one of you.”

Tristan remained silent, debating whether to stay and listen to yet another of his commander’s absentminded speeches or try and escape into the crowd. As Arthur continued to stare at the door to the infirmary, Tristan decided to take his chances and began to slowly edge his way towards the flow of people passing them by. “Tristan,” Arthur called just as the scout was about to make his escape.

“Yes, sir,” Tristan sighed and returned to his commander’s side.

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur turned to the knight.

Startled, Tristan made eye contact with the half-Roman. “Yes, sir.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Tristan waited at the stables until Kahedan and Tom returned. Both looked weary from the long ride, and Tom was leading Lancelot’s horse. “How is he?” Tom demanded, dismounting and handing off Lancelot’s horse to one of Jols’s stable hands.

“He still hadn’t woken last I heard,” Tristan replied. “He’s in the infirmary.”

Tom nodded and hurried off impatiently. Kahedan sighed and handed off his horse. “The outpost agreed to check the woods near them for more Woads. They’re also going to set a larger guard on the Wall, to watch for more incursions or for any Woads returning to the north.”

“Good,” Tristan nodded. “I’ll go with you to report to Arthur.”

“You don’t have to,” Kahedan shrugged, already heading for the villa.

“I was the leader of the patrol,” Tristan replied. “Even though I didn’t see it to the end, I should be there for your report.”

“Suit yourself,” Kahedan shrugged again.

At the villa, they found Arthur in his chambers, shuffling through a variety of reports. Kahedan gave his, and Arthur’s scribe scribbled notes on it for the commander’s review later.

“Thank you,” Arthur nodded once Kahedan had finished. “You’re both dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” both knights bowed slightly and left.

“Tavern?” Kahedan asked, grinning.

“You need to go visit the healers,” Tristan reminded his friend. “Have them look at that cut.”

“Tristan, it was barely a scratch,” Kahedan laughed. “I don’t need to see a healer. There are worse wounds I’ve had that I haven’t gone to them for.”

“Are you sure?” Tristan asked.

“Positive,” Kahedan grinned. “Now, let’s get a drink. Camille is working tonight.”

“You don’t want to go for the wine or the beer, you want to go for your girl,” Tristan grinned, rolling his eyes.

“What, is Bors the only one allowed to fall in love with a local girl?” Kahedan laughed, slinging an arm around Tristan’s shoulders.

“Oh, you love her now?” Tristan teased.

“I’ve loved Camille since I first laid eyes on her,” Kahedan grinned.

“And what about Brangien?” Tristan teased.

Kahedan’s face grew solemn. “Brangien never loved me. She teased me for years while she watched you.” At Tristan’s start, the blond laughed. “Don’t tell me you never noticed! You’re the most observant person I know!”

“I never knew,” Tristan murmured.

“I guess you were so wrapped up in my sister that you didn’t even see Brangien at her side,” Kahedan teased.

“That is true,” Tristan mused. “I could never seem to take my eyes off of Iseult.”

“Good thing Mark never noticed that,” Kahedan teased. “He’d’ve had your eyes and more for it.”

“Good thing,” Tristan agreed, grinning again.

When they reached the tavern, the knights joined Bors and several of the other knights under the open pavilion that housed the tavern during the warmer months. The tavern was unusually empty for the hour, but the knights didn’t mind too much; that just meant that there were fewer people to distract the girls.

Tristan eyed up a young girl with fire-colored hair flitting from table to table. “Bors,” he said.

“What?” the big knight asked, freezing with his tankard halfway to his mouth.

“Is Vanora pregnant again?” Tristan smirked, eyeing the slight bump under the girl’s clothes.

“Is she?” Bors gaped, slamming the tankard down to the table so hard that its contents splashed onto the wood. The man stared hard at his lover, and the other knights laughed at his shock. “I can’t tell from here,” Bors said finally, sitting back and looking cross.

Kahedan laughed. “Well, it looks like she is to me.”

“Me too,” Segwarides agreed. The other knights at the table agreed with nods and grunts, leaving Bors stunned.

“Kahedan, wait,” Bors turned to the blond. “Ask—ask Camille. She’ll know. Ask her.”

Kahedan grinned and obligingly flagged down his favorite of the serving girls. “Hello, beautiful,” he grinned up at her, catching her by the wrist and pulling her onto his lap.

“Hello,” Camille grinned, setting her pitcher down on the table to fling her arms around Kahedan’s neck. Unnoticed to her, Gawain snagged the pitcher and passed it down the table.

“We have a question for you, my dear,” Kahedan continued, pressing a kiss to her jawline.

“’We’?” Camille repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s about Vanora,” Bors interrupted.

“Well, if it’s about Vanora, shouldn’t you be asking Vanora?” Camille teased.

“Well… I don’t want her to think I haven’t been paying attention to her… or anything silly like that,” Bors grumbled, puffing himself up.

Camille threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t worry, she already knows that,” she retorted sharply.

Bors deflated, staring down into his cup and grumbling, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“Bors, I’m joking,” Camille laughed. She nudged Bors with her foot and smiled kindly at him. “Vanora knows you love her. Now, what is this question?”

“Is Vanora pregnant again?” Kahedan asked. “We all think so, but Bors doesn’t. He says he can’t see well enough from here.”

Camille laughed again. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to answer that one, since you’ve all—and probably at least half of the rest of the fort—already noticed. Yes, she is. Nearing her fourth month, too. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you yet, Bors.”

“Well…” Bors mumbled, staring into his drink again. “She did say the other night she had something important to talk to me about, but I think I fell asleep before she could tell me.”

The admission elicited raucous laughter from the other nights, and Camille added her own giggle to the mix. “Oh, Bors,” she laughed, sliding off of Kahedan’s lap and patting the big knight on the cheek. “What would we do without you,” she grinned, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Now, where’s my pitcher got to?”

At the end of the table, Galahad, who had ended up with the pitcher, gave it a guilty nudge with his elbow, sending it crashing to the ground.

“Galahad!” Camille cried as the knights erupted in another round of laughter. “Really?”

“Sorry!” the second youngest of the knights flushed red as Camille stomped over to pick up the broken pieces of pottery. “Do… do you want a hand?” he offered awkwardly.

“I want you out of my tavern,” Camille mock-glared at the boy.

Reluctantly, Galahad stood and started to step away from the table, but Segwarides grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. “She was joking, idiot,” the Greek knight teased, ruffling Galahad’s dark curls.

“Oh,” Galahad flushed red and returned to his drink among the laughter of his friends.

Tristan glanced over at Kahedan and noticed an odd look on his friend’s face. “She’s that good, huh?” he teased, throwing his arm over Kahedan’s shoulders and pulling him close.

“Hm?” Kahedan mumbled. “Oh, yeah. She is.”

“Kahedan?” Tristan asked, leaning away from the blond. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Kahedan nodded. “The ale’s just hitting me a bit quick, is all.”

“Are you sure?” Tristan asked.

“I’m fine, Tris,” Kahedan grinned toothily. “I haven’t eaten much today, so the ale’s going right to my head. I’m fine.”

Tristan released his friend, but continued to keep an eye on him. Over the next few hours, Kahedan grew paler and more unsteady, but continued to insist that it was only the alcohol putting him off. Tristan was the first to leave for the night, and dragged Kahedan with him—despite the other’s protests.

“Tris, where’re we going?” Kahedan slurred, stumbling along beside Tristan.

“To bed,” Tristan replied, pulling Kahedan’s arm over his shoulder to support him as they walked.

“Barrack’s’re… that way,” Kahedan mumbled, pointing in the vague direction of the barracks.

“I know,” Tristan said firmly. “We’re making a stop first.”

“Stop?” Kahedan’s brow furrowed. “Where?”

“The infirmary,” Tristan replied.

“For… why?” Kahedan asked. “To check on Lance?”

“Yes,” Tristan lied.

Kahedan fell silent then and let Tristan haul him through the nearly empty streets. At the infirmary, Tristan awkwardly pushed the door open and dragged Kahedan inside.

“Tristan?” Dagonet stood, setting aside the book he had been reading. “What’s wrong?”

“Him,” Tristan nodded towards Kahedan as Dagonet stepped forward to help him with his burden.

“What is it?” Dagonet asked.

“He says he’s just drunk, but he seems… off,” Tristan explained, helping Dagonet get Kahedan on one of the beds.

“Was he injured in the fight earlier?” Dagonet asked, already searching Kahedan’s body for wounds.

“Just a scratch,” Tristan replied, helping Dagonet pull Kahedan’s shirt off. When he caught sight of the other knight’s arm, Tristan gasped. Most of the arm had turned purple, the color even beginning to spread over Kahedan’s shoulder and into his chest.

“Poison,” Dagonet growled, grabbing the arm and searching for the scratch. “Must have been on the blade.”

“What do we do?” Tristan asked, aghast.

“I don’t know,” Dagonet’s voice was tight. “Go upstairs,” he ordered. “Wake Erwan; tell him we need him down here.”

Tristan nodded and ran for the healer, returning in minutes with the Breton. Tristan and Dagonet stood back as Erwan examined Kahedan, then stepped back, shaking his head grimly.

“Nothing to be done,” Erwan proclaimed. “It’s far too late to treat the poison.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” Tristan demanded, fighting back tears that pricked at his eyes.

“Nothing,” Erwan insisted. “If he’d been brought in earlier, maybe, but…”

“How much earlier?” Tristan demanded.

“Hours,” Erwan shook his head. “I would have had to treat it within the first three hours of exposure.”

Tristan stared dully at the form of his friend on the infirmary bed, a roaring rising in his ears.  _ If I hadn’t sent him to the outpost… If I’d made him come here when he returned to the fort… He could have lived. _

Dagonet rested a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and guided him to sit on the bed next to Kahedan. “I’ll go tell Arthur,” the big knight murmured.

Tristan rested his head in his hands and sobbed quietly. Kahedan had been his oldest friend. There weren’t many children their age in the village; it had just been Tristan, Kahedan, Iseult, and Brangien for the longest time. Then, life in Britain had been made bearable only by Kahedan’s presence in the fort. Without him, Tristan would have been alone.

Tristan was only vaguely aware of Arthur’s arrival in the infirmary.

_ You’re sure there’s nothing to be done? _

_ We can make him comfortable, my lord, nothing more. I am sorry. _

The bed sank down as Arthur sat next to Tristan. “Tristan?” the commander’s voice was soft.

“I should have made him come earlier,” Tristan mumbled.

“Tristan…” Arthur sighed. “It isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” Tristan insisted, raising his head to stare numbly at Kahedan’s still body. “I could’ve sent him back with Lancelot. I could have dragged him here when he returned from the outpost. There still would have been time then.”

“Tristan, this is not your fault,” Arthur repeated. “We all know how stubborn Kahedan can be—second only to Bors. He wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to.”

“I should have made him,” Tristan repeated. “I should have made him.”

“Over a scratch?” Arthur said. “None of us would have. This. Is not. Your. Fault.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Throughout the night and the next day, the other knights passed in and out of the infirmary, most of them coming to say their farewells to Kahedan, although some stayed and sat with Tristan. Arthur spent a great deal of time there, as did Dagonet. Galahad sat beside Tristan for nearly two hours in the late morning before Arthur took him and left, saying they had patrols to run in search of Woads in the forest.

Around lunchtime, Gawain crept quietly into the infirmary, carrying a packet of food. “Tristan, eat,” the bronze-haired boy encouraged the scout. “Vanora sent it. She wanted to bring it herself, but one of the children was crying… anyways, she wanted to make sure you got it before it was cold.”

The boy fell silent while Tristan picked at the food, staring at the purple stain on Kahedan’s body. Beyond the stain, Kahedan was alarmingly pale, sweat glistening against his skin as he burned with fever.

Gawain waited while Tristan ate a little, then accepted the remainder of the food. Awkwardly, he wrapped the scraps back up and slipped away.

A few hours later, as the bottom tip of the sun began to brush the horizon, the door of the infirmary opened again. Tristan didn’t look up, but felt a slender arm wrap around his shoulders as a gentle kiss was pressed to his temple.

“How are you?” Vanora asked gently, holding the scout close as a fresh round of sobs—now tearless and soundless—racked his body.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Tristan admitted, rubbing his red eyes. “I don’t know what to do—there’s nothing I can do! I should’ve made him come straight here. This is my fault.”

“It isn’t,” Vanora said soothingly, stroking his hair. “It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“It is,” Tristan insisted stubbornly. “I could’ve brought him here earlier. He’s dying now because I didn’t.”

Vanora remained silent, continuing to stroke Tristan’s hair and letting him sob drily into her shoulder.

Behind them, Camille stood silent and pale, staring at the still body of the man she loved. Slowly, she stepped forward to sit on the edge of the bed by Kahedan’s shoulder. As she bent down to press a kiss to his forehead, her tears dripped from her cheeks and nose onto his skin.

Slowly, Kahedan’s eyes fluttered open, staring up into hers. “Camille?” he murmured.

“Shush,” she soothed, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’m here.”

“Camille,” Kahedan repeated, his eyes drifting shut again.

“I’m here,” Camille whispered, tears blurring her vision.

“I’m scared, Camille,” Kahedan murmured. “I can’t feel anything any longer. My heart… it’s weak. Every breath is a whole battle.”

Camille stifled her sobs with a hand. “It’s going to be alright, my love,” she said, pressing another kiss to his forehead. “I’m right here. You’re going to be alright.”

Kahedan’s lips twitched in a small smile. “I know that’s not true,” he murmured, his eyes opening slightly to look up at her.

Silence fell in the infirmary as the four sat together. Kahedan’s breathing became even more labored, and his skin somehow grew paler. The last rays of the sun were lighting the rafters of the infirmary when Kahedan let out a gasp and his eyes flew open.

“Quiet,” Camille grabbed Kahedan’s hand in her own, her other hand brushing against his cheek. “Hush, now.”

“Camille,” Kahedan said.

“I’m here,” Camille said, her tears beginning to flow again.

“Tristan?” Kahedan called softly.

The scout fell to his knees by Kahedan’s side and took his other hand in his own. “I’m here too.”

“I can’t see,” Kahedan murmured.

“It’s alright,” Camille wept, brushing his hair back from his face. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I wish…” Kahedan murmured, his eyes drifting closed again. “I wish I could see you just one more time. The both of you, and all of the others. Arthur. Vanora… Iseult.”

Tristan lifted Kahedan’s hand to his forehead and held it there. “You’ll see us again one day,” he promised. “Iseult too. We’ll find you.”

“Until then, I suppose I’ll have to settle for the likes of Bagdemagus and Durnure,” Kahedan coughed, “and all the others who have already passed.”

“You’ll see your father,” Tristan said. “He’ll be waiting for you.”

“And I’ll be waiting for you,” Kahedan murmured. “But don’t come too soon.”

“I won’t,” Tristan promised.

“You either, Camille,” Kahedan said.

“I won’t,” Camille promised, her voice thick from her tears.

“Good,” a smile twitched at Kahedan’s lips. They heard a few more labored breaths, and then Kahedan was silent.

Camille let out a wail and flung herself across Kahedan’s body. As Erwan and Dagonet came racing from the side room, Tristan dropped Kahedan’s hand and staggered backwards, stumbling into the bed that Vanora still sat on.

“Tristan…” Vanora reached for him, but he pushed past her and made for the door. Once outside, he ran. He ran until he could run no further. Then, he fell on his knees, threw back his head, and screamed at the sky. He screamed until he was hoarse, then sagged down, chin to his chest, and sobbed brokenly, though no more tears fell from his eyes.


	20. Poison, Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poison, Epilogue ties directly into the story Poison.
> 
> Setting: About 9 years after the knights' arrival in Britain. 2ish weeks after Poison.

Lancelot spent a long time in the infirmary—it felt like a lifetime to the young knight. He hadn’t even been allowed to leave for Kahedan’s funeral—not that he had been fully conscious at that point, but he was still cross about it. The other knights passed in and out of the infirmary, between training, patrols, and their other duties. Arthur made it a point to visit him at least once a day, to the extent that he started to annoy the younger knight, rather than brighten his day.

It was over two weeks after the fateful patrol that Erwan finally gave Lancelot leave to return to his quarters in the barracks, although he wasn’t to resume training or patrols any time soon.

Naturally, the first place that Lancelot went was the training grounds. There, he found Tristan and Galahad practicing their marksmanship on the battered targets of the archery range, while Arthur was overseeing a duel between Gawain and Segwarides. Lancelot joined Arthur at the fence to the practice ring, to watch the fight. Arthur had made the two knights exchange weapons—Segwarides was wielding Gawain’s axes, while the youngest knight held Segwarides’s longsword and buckler. As Lancelot watched, Gawain brought the sword up just in time to catch one axe, and the wooden buckler around to catch the other. The second axe stuck in the shield, and with a jerk of the wrist, Gawain twisted the sword and wrenched the first axe out of Segwarides’s grip. However, before Gawain could swing the sword around to land a blow on Segwarides, the older knight kicked him—hard—in the stomach, doubling the boy over and making him drop the sword and shield.

Before Arthur could call the fight, Segwarides had tackled Gawain to the ground and pinned him there, Gawain still groaning from the hard blow to his stomach. Arthur sighed and called for the two to stop.

“The point of the exercise was to get used to weapons you don’t normally use,” Arthur scolded as Segwarides helped the gasping Gawain to his feet. “It wasn’t to win, and it wasn’t to hurt one another.” Segwarides offered a sheepish grin in response to Arthur’s side-eye.

“I could go a round with Segwarides while Gawain catches his breath,” Lancelot suggested.

Arthur turned his glare to the troublemaker. "I think not,” he retorted.

“Lancelot, you must have really damaged your head,” Gawain gasped, “if you think that you could last long enough against Segwarides for me to get my breath back after that kick.”

Lancelot glared at the bronze-haired knight. “You’d better watch it, or I’m going to come in there and kick your ass, head wound or not.”

“You most definitely will not,” Dagonet’s hand clapped down on Lancelot’s shoulder. “You’re lucky to be out of the infirmary; if I hear any more talk like that, I’ll drag you back there myself and tie you down until you’re fully healed.”

Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it, opting to shoot a wicked glare at the chuckling Gawain and Segwarides instead.

Arthur sighed. “I suppose that’s enough for the day. Put your weapons away, and remember your patrols tomorrow.”

Gawain and Segwarides traded their weapons back and climbed out of the ring. “Come on, Lancelot,” Segwarides slung an arm around the black-haired knight’s shoulders. “Let’s go get a drink.”

“No drinking!” Dagonet called after them. “Lancelot isn’t healed enough yet!”

The knights pretended not to hear their mother hen as they headed for the tavern. It had been, thankfully, years since most of them had been able to get their own weapons, meaning that they no longer had to keep them in the armory. Arthur preferred that they not walk around the fort fully armed, but had given up on trying to prevent the fierce warriors from carrying any weapons within the walls of the fort after the history of Woad attacks on the Roman settlement.

In the tavern, Lancelot reluctantly refrained from having more than a cup or two of wine, wary of the way the alcohol tended to throw off his balance, since his equilibrium hadn’t totally returned yet after his head wound. He did not, however, refrain from flirting with the girls who worked in the tavern—especially Kerensa, the newest of the girls, who hadn’t yet learned to avoid the charming knight or how to overcome his advances.

Once Vanora rescued Kerensa from Lancelot, however, the night quickly became boring, especially with the lack of alcohol. Even making fun of Galahad, who, even after many years of drinking, still couldn’t hold his liquor, wore thin before long, and Lancelot found himself bored.

Deciding that an early bedtime might not be the worst thing in the world, Lancelot excused himself from the rowdy group of knights in the tavern, bid Vanora a good night, and stepped out into the cool evening air. It was early autumn in Britain, which was, in Lancelot’s opinion, the best time of year on the island—cooler than the summer, but just before the later autumn and winter rains would begin to fall incessantly.

Lancelot took his time on his way back to the barracks, enjoying the cool breeze that was stirring the stuffy air of the fort. He greeted Jols when he passed the steward, and responded to the “hellos” and “good evenings” of those he met in the streets with similar salutations.

In the barracks, Lancelot stopped to chat with a few other knights who had returned late from patrol before heading up to his room. Happy to finally be spending the night in his own bed, he didn’t notice the slight extra resistance when he pushed the door open. He did, however, notice when he took a step into his room and something small and round snapped under his foot. He also noticed the squelching under his boot that accompanied the crunch. He took another step and heard another crunch, although this time from at least two sources. Continuing to the closed window, each step was accompanied by a crunch and a squelch. Taking steps became slightly difficult as his feet started to stick to the stone floor.

Throwing the shutters over the window wide open, Lancelot turned to face the room. His jaw dropped as he saw the floor littered with small white objects. A glance at his path to the window confirmed his suspicion: the eggs had been crushed and outlined his footsteps.

Lancelot’s eyes welled up with unbidden tears as he realized what was going on. He sank down to the floor, back to the wall under the window, ignoring the crunch and squelch of the eggs he sat on. He bit his knuckle hard trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“Ah,” came a voice from the door.

Lancelot’s head shot up and he furiously blinked away tears as his eyes met Tristan’s; the scout was equally teary as he surveyed the carnage of unfertilized poultry scattered across Lancelot’s floor.

“He said he’d gotten his revenge when we were riding out that morning,” Tristan said softly, nudging a nearby egg with his foot. “I had no idea what he meant. I mean, I knew that Tom’s bed had been covered with feathers; I guess I just assumed he’d done the same to yours.”

“Not quite,” Lancelot smiled wryly, looking around at the dozens of eggs all over his room.

There was a moment of silence as Tristan continued to nudge the egg with his toe and Lancelot tried to ignore the egg whites and yolks seeping into the seat of his pants.

“I’ll help you clean them up,” Tristan said, stepping into the room. He carefully pushed the eggs aside with his foot as he made for the washstand, flint and steel already in his hand to spark a light for the candle there.

“You don’t have to,” Lancelot sniffed, wiped his nose on his hand, and stood up, wincing as his trousers stuck to the floor slightly.

“I don’t mind,” Tristan offered the younger knight a rare smile. “It’s my last chance to… interact with him. After this, it’ll just be memories and graveside visits. At least until I join him, that is.”

“Okay,” Lancelot followed Tristan’s lead, pushing the eggs out of the way with his foot as he crossed to stand by the scout. “So… where do we start?” 


	21. Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgetting takes place during Chapter 7 of Meeting, the next story in the Knights of the Round Table series.
> 
> Setting: One year before the knights' scheduled return to Sarmatia.

The worst part about being here was forgetting. After so many years in Britain, Sarmatia was little more than a distant memory, a place that he had once lived instead of the home that he’d been fighting for so long to get back to. And that memory was fading.

Once, he had been able to recall everything with perfect clarity. His mother’s face, the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin, the brush of her hair and lips against his skin when she kissed his forehead before tucking him in at night; every nook and cranny of their small home, the comfort of his thin mattress after a long day working in the fields beside his mother; the long plains of grass that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction around his village, the way the wind swept waves through the grass as it billowed in warning of an approaching storm.

Now, her face was a blurred shape in his mind’s eye. He could no longer remember her voice, and the only kisses he knew where those of the girls in the tavern back home. He remembered the rough shape of his childhood home, but nothing more; it was hardly any more solid of a shape than his mother’s face. He remembered the grass—or at least, he thought he did. But he could just as easily have been picturing the much smaller fields of grass and reeds that informed travelers on the island that they were nearing the coast.

Galahad looked up at the storm clouds above him as fat flakes of snow began to fall ever so slowly around them. He didn’t remember snow falling in Sarmatia, although Bors and Lancelot insisted that it had, and often, in the winters. He tried to imagine the great grass plains covered in snow, but all he could picture was forests blanketed in wet, heavy snow that coated the tree branches and brought them crashing to the ground without warning. Absentmindedly, he brushed snow that was gathering on his thighs off as it began to melt through his clothes, the cold and damp bringing him out of his reverie.

“Where were you?” Gawain asked softly. Galahad glanced to the side to see that Gawain had opened the blanket Dagonet had pinned over the wagon’s open side to keep its occupants warm and dry. Beside Gawain, deeper in the wagon’s dark interior and covered in a pile of blankets, Galahad could see his friend’s companion, a small, sick girl; she was leaned up against Gawain’s side, his arm around her for extra warmth, and stared at Galahad with wide, sunken brown eyes.

“Sarmatia,” Galahad replied wistfully.

Gawain’s lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. “Trying to picture snow on the plains?”

“Yeah,” Galahad admitted, laughing.

“No matter how hard I try, I just can’t,” Gawain sighed, leaning further out of the wagon to look up at the dark clouds. “It almost seems unnatural. The only place I can picture snow is on the trees of this damn island.”

Galahad nodded in agreement. “I know that Bors and Lancelot say that it snowed in Sarmatia all the time in the winter, but I just can’t see it.”

Gawain nodded but remained silent. They lapsed back into silence, the snowflakes beginning to fall more heavily around them.

“One more year,” Galahad said suddenly, many moments later.

“Hm?” Gawain turned back to his friend, having drifted off on another train of thought.

“In one more year, we’ll see snow in Sarmatia,” Galahad said determinedly.

Gawain smiled. “Probably more like two, until we get our papers and actually make it back to the plains. And then we’ll have to actually wait until winter. But it’s not long now.”

“Not as long as it used to be,” Galahad agreed. Silence fell again until a call from Arthur near the front of the caravan summoned Galahad. He left his friend and their silent companion in the wagon with an apologetic glance and rode forwards, leaving thoughts of Sarmatia and snow-covered grasslands behind him.

_ One more year _ he promised himself.  _ In one more year, I’ll be going home _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing you may recognize from the 2004 film King Arthur, including characters, ideas, concepts, places, etc. I do, however, own these stories, the ideas in them, and the original characters represented herein.


End file.
